Blue Moon
by LyingMonsters
Summary: Matthew Williams' life as a tank gunner is grey and meaningless away from the two things he lives for- his mathematics and his safe life in the wilds of Canada. One night, he meets the fascinating poet, Francis Bonnefoy, who will make his term in Berlin both incredible and dangerous. Inspired by the Elvis Presley song of the same name. 1961 Berlin AU.
1. Chapter 1

Alfred was gone for the second day in a row, leaving his flight crew without their leader, and leaving Matthew behind to clean up.

This has been happening more and more. First Alfred was going on about a plan to get past the Wall, and yesterday he came back at two in the morning without his jacket. Matthew had to fix things every time. He wasn't even supposed to be helping the bombers run drill. He was a tank gunner, comfortable and _safe_ on the ground, not mad enough to be suspended in the wide open air with this many Soviet guns waiting for even a wingtip to stray into their airspace. Flying was all well and good during peace, he assumed, not that he'd ever really known peace. The only familiar things were the weariness of fighting, the shining silver bomber roaring, and his math textbook open and hidden from all but his sight underneath the controls.

If Matthew was being honest, he didn't want to be a soldier. War and uniform never held the same allure to him as other people. Alfred lived and breathed to fly and fight, but Matthew dreamed of his numbers and his comfortable home back in Canada. He dreamed of being a professor again, where he could help instead of hurt, but those were only dreams as long as he stayed in Berlin.

The bomber was now in holding pattern over the airport, and Alfred was still on radio silence. Hot rage was clouding metallic under Matthew's tongue and in his teeth, all the way down to his stomach. _Alfred_ thought he could run off and do whatever he wanted and never stopped to think about what other people might want. He just flashed his shiny smile and people let him go. It wasn't fair. Matthew snapped his book shut and stormed off the plane the moment it touched down.

Alfred had told him about the kinds of girls here, and how some of them would invite you home if you paid. Matthew hadn't felt the same pull other soldiers had, but it was worth a try. It would clear his head.

Unfortunately, he got lost.

The backstreets were quieter, the cobblestones rough under his feet. Matthew could see the lights flashing by the Wall. Storm clouds were gathering, and with the coming twilight, the streets were darker. Matthew ducked through the nearest shop, resigning himself to ask for directions to the closest bar instead.

The moment he stepped inside, all he saw was colour, neon orange and pink and yellow and green and what seemed like hundreds more colours splattered across the wall in an explosive display. He'd stumbled into an art gallery. Despite himself, Matthew stepped forward in awe, taking in the sights.

'Lost, mon cher?' someone asked from beside him. Matthew whirled, and found himself eye-to-eye with someone who was very possibly the most gorgeous person he'd ever seen. His eyes _shone_.

'My name is Francis Bonnefoy,' he said, extending a hand. Matthew, still dumbstruck, took it and let his hand be shaken. Francis' eyes roamed up and down his body, clearly appraising. His blue eyes met again and he smiled, looking approving of what he'd found.

Matthew's tongue didn't seem to be working, but he wouldn't have told Francis to stop staring even if he could.

'The strong and silent type, are you?' Francis gently touched his lapel, where he'd pinned a maple leaf. 'I don't mind that.'

'Matthew Williams,' he blurted, aware of all the places he was still growing, too awkward and young-bird stumbling to be compared with Francis. 'Well, my friend calls me Mattie, and other people call me Matt.'

'They desecrate your name!' Francis exclaimed. 'Do they not know of Matthew Henson, Matthew C. Perry, the saint Matthew himself?' He lifted Matthew's fingers to his lips, his kiss barely brushing against the knuckles. Matthew's breath stuck in his throat. 'I will treasure it.'

Francis lowered their joined hands far too soon, and Matthew's tongue felt slow and thick. Francis continued.

'Well, Soldier Williams. Where are you stationed? Or is it a secret?' Francis' eyes sparkled with amusement. Matthew couldn't remember if his base was a secret or not and did not care. Francis could be a spy for all he knew, but as long as he kept standing here and holding his hand-he hadn't let go and Matthew was a bit dizzy-he'd tell him everything.

'Just that way, up the street, and I think I'm lost because I wanted to go to the…' Matthew blinked slowly, trying to remember. 'The bar?'

'Well, what good fortune you found my humble abode instead,' Francis said, gesturing to the gallery. He nodded to a nearby canvas, on which the lines of a poem were arranged in the shape of a chickadee. Softer colours accented the edges to enhance the image, and it felt like a breath of the wilderness in the loudly coloured room. 'I am a poet in the style of Apollinaire. Do you like my work?'

'I love it,' Matthew said instantly. Francis chuckled, and it sounded like a melody.

'You haven't even read it yet.'

'It doesn't matter. It's yours, and so I already love it.'

For a second, Matthew thought he'd gone too far. Francis raised an eyebrow, a faint pink suffusing his cheeks. His face was open for a second, astonished, expressive, and Matthew felt a pull deep in his chest.

'You are too kind, Matthew,' he said finally, his eyes dropping to the ground. He straightened again a second later, his smile back. 'May I accompany you to the bar?'

'Yes, please.'

Francis walked close to him, their hands brushing together. Matthew subtly pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, and when he wasn't, asked himself how he was so lucky.

'Tell me more about being a soldier, Matthew,' Francis invited. Matthew chuckled uncertainly.

'Are you sure? It's not like they say it is. I'm not a pilot. There's no glorious fights.'

'I think we both know that war is not glorious,' Francis said solemnly. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes that moved Matthew, but he found himself talking.

'I'm a tank gunner. Alfred is on a bomber.'

Francis frowned. 'Alfred? The American?'

His heart sunk. Of course Francis knew Alfred, and so he'd know that Alfred was loud and bright and wonderful, and Matthew was not. 'Yes.'

Francis' brow smoothed. 'Oh, mon Dieu, your friend Alfred is a blessing. Thanks to him, for once Arthur is out of my hair.'

Matthew blinked in surprise and tried to get his thoughts back on track. 'You don't prefer I talk about him?'

'I want to know about _you_.'

He'd never talked so much about himself before. 'I...I'm in the American sector, too, on their reinforcements.'

'I imagine Berlin is a far ways from America,' Francis teased.

'I'm from Canada, really. I live almost up near the territories, where everything is wild and you can see nothing but the northern lights and the water and the mountains for miles…' Matthew stopped. 'Sorry, you don't want to hear about that.'

'Matthew. Do not doubt yourself, go on. You look...so much happier when you imagine those places.' He placed a hand on Matthew's shoulder. 'Why did you come here, if you were so happy there, my dear maple leaf?'

'Because...because I can stop the war, somehow. I can stop war from hurting those I care for if I am here to keep it contained. I can be peaceful, even as a soldier. Can't I?' His throat felt thick, but he would not think about the terror of war too deeply here, when all his emotion was already too close to the surface.

'Oh, Matthew. Of course.' Francis looked oddly tender. 'Matthew, my dear boy. You are so...how would I put it in English? Gentle. You are gentle.'

Matthew could only nod. Francis' hand shifted against his shoulder and brushed against his cheek, and the air felt charged. It would be easy to be closer.

Francis looked down and pulled away suddenly, a sharp breath drawing up through his chest and pulling back through his shoulders. Matthew swayed on his feet, mind still stuck in the faint scent of Francis' hair.

'Shall we drink?' he asked. And then, in a rush. 'You are old enough to drink?'

'I'm twenty-one,' Matthew said in confusion. 'Why? How old are you? I thought the drinking age here was lower than that.'

'Oh. Twenty-one, that is good,' Francis said, sounding more than relieved. 'I am-am twenty-five. The drinking age here is less, yes, which Gilbert was ever so glad about back when his brother was still young enough to agree to come out with us-but it is of no importance! Come in.'

Francis insisted on buying his first drink, even though Matthew said he had money. He realized belatedly that he'd forgotten all about his earlier plan for clearing his head. His head was dizzy with more than his drink, which he barely noticed, and absolutely free of thoughts of Alfred. The words _twenty-five_ still spun around in his head, and he toyed with them lazily, wondering how Francis seemed so much more experienced with so few years.

'Who is Arthur?' he asked. 'Is he your friend?'

Francis grimaced. 'Mon Dieu, you think I would be _friends_ with someone as irritating as that? And with gigantic eyebrows, too. It is my duty, nay, my _service_ to interrupt on the daily his reading of that ridiculous, ancient poetry book, otherwise he gets drunk and starts reciting it on top of tables while shirtless.' Francis smiled over the rim of his glass. 'I keep people from having to see that. I know you won't be the same kind of drunk.'

Matthew hadn't even gotten through half his glass and his heart was already fluttering. 'Are you sure about that?'

'You're very elegant,' Francis said. 'Why is a boy such as you a soldier?'

'Conscription. I'm a mathematics professor at one of the universities. I'd rather be back there. I'm only here for three months, and then I'm on leave.' He hesitated, looking up at where Francis was watching interestedly. 'I'd looked forward to that until tonight.'

'Don't say someone as small as me has changed your mind,' Francis purred. Matthew just laughed in disbelief and turned back to his drink. Francis shifted closer. 'Really. Tell me.'

'You're a poet,' Matthew said in poor explanation. He couldn't tell Francis he was _fascinating with lovely eyes_. 'I've never met a poet before.'

'Do you truly like my humble work so much?' Francis asked. 'You'd make an excellent poet. It takes your certain kind of gentleness to hold the world in words the way the old poets did. I do not have that gentleness. I fight with my words against war and injustice.'

It sounded breathtaking. 'Like a hero?' He asked. The phrase reminded him of Alfred, and he frowned.

'No, I would like to be more a...partisan, they called them. A revolutionary.' Francis nodded in satisfaction. 'A revolutionary. There are always new battles to fight for justice, and I write to remind people that we are all equal.'

'That sounds amazing.' The memory of Alfred still held with him, though, and Francis was a paladin with his words, someone glorious and far better suited to someone else. Matthew sighed, resigning himself to letting Francis go. He would treasure the memory of this night, nestled into his heart beside his memories and nights by the lakes and mountains, but it would not happen again. He wrapped his hands tightly against the cold glass of his empty drink and took a deep breath. 'I...I should go soon. And you know, with your fighting, you might really like Alfred better than me-'

'_Matthew_,' Francis said firmly. 'Do not doubt yourself, my dearest. You are not Alfred. I find you much more likeable, and I'm sure other people do, as well. Arthur has bad taste and should not be considered.' His voice was far too reassuring and certain, and Matthew could swoon for how it was all focused on him.

'Me?' Matthew laughed unsteadily. He untwisted the glass in his hands and offered it back. 'The people love me. I think it's because I'm not American. But you-'

'I would only want you, my maple leaf soldier.' Francis touched Matthew's lapel, where the leaf was bright red against the dark fabric of the uniform. His eyes were intense. 'Will you do me the favour of walking back to the gallery with me?'

Matthew couldn't resist him. His unspoken protests still fluttering in his throat, he silently got up and followed Francis out into a street where the ends of a cloudburst were draining from the sky.

The moonlight slid down around them through the new gap in the clouds, and Francis hummed a few slow, crooning lines from one of those Elvis songs Alfred kept playing. It didn't sound half as bad in his voice. Slowly, Matthew began to relax. He was peaceful in the quiet when they were outside the museum, sleepy and empty of thought.

'Thank you for tonight,' Francis said, taking his hand again. 'My dearest, could I ask you one final favour? Come back tomorrow, the same time.'

'To see me?' Matthew asked.

'I want to see you, yes, but I am not so selfish as to simply call you out to satisfy myself. I will make it worth your while.' Francis looked up hopefully. Matthew would have agreed to just seeing him, and nodded. He felt like he should be chivalrous, to do something charming and be as polished as Francis, but he didn't know how, and his eyes were like the bluest of lakes in the far-off mountains. He knelt, pulled Francis' hand to his lips, and kissed the knuckles, feeling the slight roughness of the skin there.

'Of course.'

Francis looked down at him in surprise, and slowly squeezed his hand.

'You are...very, very interesting, Matthew,' he said. 'You mystify me in the best way.'

Matthew should stand, but he stayed kneeling. Francis' other hand caressed his hair. 'Nobody has ever said that about me.'

'Then they're fools. All of them. You are _fascinating_.'

Matthew was fluttering, light as the leaves fallen from trees in blazing scraps of orange. He stood, buzzing down to his bones.

'I will be back tomorrow,' he promised lowly, squeezed his hand a final time, and left.

He didn't remember how he got back to base, only that he shocked awake standing in the apartment hall, staring at Alfred, who was dripping wet, wearing his missing jacket over civilian clothes, and smiling so widely it was nearly blinding.

'Oh my God, Mattie, you would not believe the night I just had,' he whispered in awe. Matthew blinked blurrily.

'I bet I had better,' he murmured, turned the corner to his rooms, and was asleep before he hit the pillow.

**0o0o0o**

_**Blue moon**_

_**You saw me standing alone**_

_**Without a dream in my heart**_

_**Without a love of my own**_

_**-Blue Moon**_

**_:: Unconscious doodles on notes_**


	2. Chapter 2

When Matthew woke up, his glasses were still on his face. He pulled them off and rubbed the sleep from his eyes in front of the mirror, taking in his spiked hair and wide eyes. Francis had felt like a dream, a ethereal, misty memory that might disappear in the sunlight. It seemed impossible that someone like Francis had been interested him. He touched the side of his face, remembering Francis' smile and his invitation to return.

Matthew sighed, knowing he would return to the art studio later, ducked his head under the water, and started getting ready for drill. Someone had taken his good shirt.

0o0o0o

For once, Alfred had showed up to drill, even though he'd grinned all the way through it. He was still as brilliant as ever in training, however, and with that sun-bright smile that made even his officers' glares soften, he was let off with a reprimand. It was hopelessly unfair, but Matthew had resigned himself long ago to everyone's orbits getting caught in Alfred's magnetism.

He sat down next to Matthew in the late morning at the nearby bar, nearly vibrating with excitement. He was still dressed in those ridiculous tight jeans and what Matthew recognized as his shirt. He moved over to let him sit down.

'You look happy.'

'I met this soldier again, this Brit. His name is Arthur Kirkland.' He beamed again and took Matthew's drink. Matthew silently reminded himself to make Alfred pay the tab.

Matthew remembered the name. 'Francis said he liked you. What happened with him?'

'He got me into the East,' Alfred said promptly.

Matthew stared at him, horrified. 'Alfred, you-_you snuck into the East?_ You're going to start a war!'

'Nobody saw me! I was wearing civilian clothes. I took your shirt.' He looked down, as if only realizing he was still wearing it. 'Can I…?'

Matthew groaned and buried his face in his hands. He would need a new shirt for tonight. 'Keep it. How did Arthur agree to this?'

'He was drunk.' Alfred took a gulp and squinted into his drink. 'This isn't bourbon. Who poured this?'

'That's because it's mine,' Matthew said, but he had already ordered another and passed his mostly depleted drink across the mahogany.

'Here, you can have this one.'

'Thank you,' Matthew said. His sarcasm was lost on Alfred. He downed the shot and stood up, his whole body alight like a live wire.

'And I'm seeing him again today, so I should be going soon because I was late last time since I had to find your shirts.' Alfred grinned down at him, digging in his pocket for money. He tossed a few bills on the counter and was gone again, just a flash of lightning shattering the peace before he vanished.

Matthew decided to order another drink, a shot of bourbon, on Alfred's credit. It was only fair. Besides, with the way he'd spoken about Arthur, Matthew didn't expect him back soon.

0o0o0o

Leaving camp was a breath of fresh air. Matthew didn't realize how much he truly craved the quiet until he was away from the fireworks and shouting. Even so, he looked terrible, because Alfred had taken his one formal shirt, and his good pair of trousers didn't match his other collared shirt. The only good thing was that he'd pinned his maple leaf charm back onto his lapel.

He couldn't do anything about it now, he supposed, even though it made him wince as if he was a nervous teenager again, going out to the drive-in movies along with Alfred with his suntanned interchangeable girlfriends who he never paid attention to, and him with his, who he supposed he never paid much attention to, either.

But he wasn't going to the drive-in movies, and Alfred wasn't here, and there were certainly no girls, tanned or otherwise. There would be only him and Francis and the poetry, and _that_ made his heart quicken like the girls never had. Matthew touched his face again to find himself smiling, laughed because Berlin was wild and bright at night, like the northern lights if it had teeth and steel and war and a harder, sharper, more dangerous kind of beauty in it, and ran the rest of the way to the art studio.

Francis was waiting outside for him, smoking a cigarette. Matthew had never thought much about smoking before, but the way Francis smiled at him-genuinely, brightly-around the ember and the bourbon made him bold, or curious at the very least.

'Matthew,' Francis greeted, taking the cigarette out and making as if to stub it out. Matthew took his hand before he did, his heart still pounding in his throat, and took the thin, still-smoking ember from his hands. He didn't do it smoothly, and his nerves made his hands shake, but he did it. Francis raised an eyebrow at him, interest sparking in those blue eyes, and that _interest_ was what made Matthew want to be more than he'd ever been before.

'Do you want it?' Francis asked, with a low purr in his voice that made Matthew shiver. He lifted the smoke to his lips and breathed in slowly, trying to let the smoke settle and bracing himself for the acrid aftertaste, but it was surprisingly good, and he couldn't stop his eyes widening.

Francis' expression broke into a smile.

'They're French, of course. I won't touch any of the horrid ones the Red Army prefers.' But his smile slid back into intensity, and he leaned subtly forward, placing a hand on Matthew's cheek. 'You are always full of surprises, my dearest.'

He moved instinctively to disagree and say it was _Alfred_ who was the thunder and lightning between them, but a look in Francis' eyes silenced the thoughts. Matthew pulled the cigarette away and the smoke curled up between them. Francis' mouth curled the same way, and the hand on his cheek shifted, guiding him closer, so close he could smell the mixture of sweet smoke and soap on Francis' skin. It was strangely intoxicating.

'Breathe out,' Francis instructed, and Matthew obeyed, too dizzy and longing to do anything but listen to his accent. The smoke settled in his hair. Francis took the cigarette back, and breathed deeply, his eyes never leaving Matthew's, and they shared the rest until the ember was burning down to their fingers and Matthew was so punch-drunk on the scent of his hair that he felt faint.

Francis carefully ground the ember underfoot and took his hand.

'I made you something,' he said. Matthew blinked into the moonlight, feeling every slight roughness in those artist's hands.

'Why?' The word slipped out innocently. Francis turned to him, on this backstreet near the Wall, and Matthew wanted nothing but this.

'Because an artist is compelled to describe beauty.' He chuckled. 'It is the only thing we can all agree upon. Would you like to see?' And there, ever the questioning, hesitant glimpse of emotion that Matthew adored.

'I'd love to.'

Francis led him inside, past his usual station and the bright mural, past a painting of a soldier with shining blue eyes, to a small back room. The place was lit by a skylight instead of the sharp electric lights, and the silvery blue moonlight illuminated scarlet and pumpkin and sunshine woven into words, autumn in the unspoiled places of Canada that Matthew loved so much. He couldn't even speak, only gaze, taking in the shape of the flame-coloured maple leaf still pinned to his lapel.

'You can go closer,' Francis said with a hint of amusement. Matthew came closer in awe. He hovered above the vibrant red with trembling fingertips, afraid to disturb the perfection of curled letters swooping in graceful loops, like bird flight. 'What does this all mean?'

Francis shifted closer, his warm, solid chest pressing against his back. His hair tickled against Matthew's shoulder. 'The name of this poem is _Trouvaille_. It means a lucky find, a diamond in the rough. I thought it suited you.' He looked up, uncertainty showing in flashes again. 'Do you like it?'

'I love it.'

Francis smiled, all edges smoothed away by the rainwater-soft light. 'You praise me as if you are not the artwork I try to describe,' he said softly. 'I am but your Michelangelo, and you, my dearest, are my David.'

Matthew never imagined himself a giant slayer, and the thought of him alone against the looming force of threatening war was too much. He would leave the heroism to Alfred. But these personal battles won, these moments treasured with Francis, made him feel like just as eternal and immortalized.

'Then I give myself to you,' he said. Even if he was not elegant or refined like Francis, he wanted to tell him what it felt like that this was something that could never be broken down into his calculations and he loved it all the more for that. His heart was pounding. 'Do you know what I feel?' he breathed, quietly.

Francis turned him to face. '_Man or woman, I might tell you how I love you, but cannot, and might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot, and might tell that pining that I have, that pulse of my nights and days_…' He trailed off, eyes locked on his. 'Poetry, my dearest, is the way we find to describe the indescribable when words fail us in times such as love and war.'

Matthew felt the world draw in. Francis' hand was in his hair, pulling him closer, closer.

'And which time is this?'

Francis' smile lit up the dark. 'Oh, Matthew, it is surely a tragedy. It is both.'

They were close, close, until Francis stepped back abruptly. Matthew was disoriented and nearly growled with frustration. He had wanted this, Francis had _said_ the word love.

'Not always.' He could not imagine this a tragedy.

Francis' smile was soft and sad. 'No. Not always. But always, there is hurt.' He led Matthew away from the skylight room and back into the street, where he glanced towards the East. 'I would know.'

'Did you love someone?' Matthew felt a twinge of anger at the thought. Maybe that was why Francis had stepped away.

'I have loved many,' Francis said with a glance sideways. 'But I had two friends there. Best friends. One of them insisted on staying in the East. The other...I thought the other was dead until rather recently.' His expression twisted. 'It turns out he was a traitor instead. I prefer to think of him as dead.'

Matthew was unsure about the abrupt change of subject. 'What do you mean by insisted? He couldn't have known, the Wall was a surprise to everyone.'

'The traitor knew,' Francis said. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he jutted it out. 'He sold people who trusted him to find out. I heard-I heard not even his brother knew he was still alive until he arrived back in our lives the night before the barbed wire came up. He still lives here now, you know. Gilbert's brother.'

The name registered. 'You mentioned Gilbert yesterday!'

'Yes. Gilbert Beilschmidt.' Francis looked lost for a moment.

'Why did he become a traitor?' Matthew asked softly. Francis' expression hardened.

'Because he is a dog to those in power and thinks it protects him.' He sighed, and shook his head. 'I am sorry. I do not want to trouble you with my past. It is of no importance now. He is in the East, and I am in the West. Which I am glad for, if you are here.'

'Are you sure?' Matthew asked.

'Very. Would you like to walk? I would have asked you yesterday, but you were still in your uniform. I don't want to disturb your duty.' He smiled.

Matthew was glad to be away from the subject of Gilbert. He agreed.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Ink doodles on aged pages_**


	3. Chapter 3

The city wasn't quiet even at night. That was the difference between the wilderness and the urban sprawl-in the wild, on the moonless late nights where the owls had settled down and the wolves were slumbering, it was so quiet he could hear every slow pulse of his heart. In a city, the only pulse he could hear was the roar of people not so far away, and his own heart hammering against his chest, pressing up against his ribs, straining out.

'There was an alert today,' Matthew said. 'A riot at the border. Alfred must have gone, but I haven't heard back from him.'

'It was protestors, I assume?' His voice had a strange tone to it.

'I'm not sure. What makes you think that?'

'I used to know some revolutionaries,' Francis said. 'I am still one of them, really.'

'Really?' Matthew couldn't help his excitement. 'Against the Stasi? Like the freedom fighters?'

'Indeed.' Francis nodded towards the Wall. 'Some of them would try to pull that down, believe me. As dangerous as it would be for them.'

'Oh, that sounds…' Matthew wanted to say _terrifying_, but he didn't want Francis to think he was a coward. 'Incredible.'

'You think so?' Francis smiled and reached up and fixed a stray strand of his hair, like it was the most natural thing to do, like it didn't set his heart racing even more. 'It terrified me. Every time I set out to paint the walls or sabotage a weapons truck, I thought I would die.'

Matthew cupped his hand with his own. 'Then why did you do it?'

'Because it was the right thing. Anything worth fighting for should terrify you, but you keep going because it is worth it. Because the thought of the world without doing that scares you even more. That's how you know it's what you should do.' Francis tilted his head closer. 'Love and war are not so different. If you fall truly in love with someone, if you fight for what you believe in, it scares you, it entrances you, it is dangerous and wonderful and every time you know what you must do, even if it will kill you. And you do it anyways.'

'How many times have you done that? Fought for a cause like that?' He hesitated. 'Or fallen in love like that?'

'Only once,' Francis whispered. 'And you only do once.'

He let go of his hand. His brilliant blue eyes were soft and shadowed and impossibly deep with sadness.

'Even if it kills you,' he said softly.

'You're in the West now,' Matthew said, feeling strangely empty without his warmth, dark and hollow with the need to be closer. 'The Stasi can't hurt you.'

'It's not the Stasi I worry about now.' Francis smiled and set the pace again, leading them down the street. Matthew hurried to catch up and didn't ask any more questions. Inquiring more about love would only reveal his hopeless affections.

'I heard there was an artist at one of the military camps today.' Francis glanced at him. 'Was he at yours?'

'No, the British one. I wish he had come to ours, though. After the Americans left, all we could do was wait. Do you know why he was there?'

'I have my suspicions, but no matter.' Francis chuckled. 'His name is Feliciano Vargas. He's a friend of mine.'

'Vargas? Alfred bought one of his paintings! He's very good,' Matthew complimented.

'I'll pass it onto him.' Francis looked pleased. Matthew nodded, idly stretching out one of his arms, and his shirt rode up around his midriff, showing off his horrid scar from being charged by an moose. He pulled it back down, flushing red. Francis was watching, his eyes taking a long time to move up to his face.

'Did someone hurt you?' he asked, his voice nearly dangerous underneath a careful calm.

'No, no-' Matthew pretended to laugh, cursing Alfred for making him wear mismatched clothing. 'It was a moose.'

Francis blinked, his fearsome expression falling away in an instant. 'A moose?'

'Yes, one of the big bull ones. His rack must have been eighteen points.' Matthew illustrated the width with his hands. 'I thought I could scare him off from my cabin. I think I was-only a little bit-drunk, and overestimated myself, because he charged. This isn't from his antlers, of course, it's from when I dived to get out of his way.' He tried and failed again to fasten his shirt.

'Oh. I thought…' Francis shook his head. 'I'm glad nobody tried to hurt you. How big was the moose? I've seen a deer, I believe. Are moose the size of horses?'

Matthew stifled a laugh. 'Bigger.'

Francis looked mildly distressed. 'How much bigger?'

Matthew gestured, stretching up on the balls of his feet. 'Their shoulders go up to here.'

Francis' expression of sheer terror made him giggle, and he tried to muffle himself. 'Oh, I'm _sorry_, you're just-oh, Francis!'

'In France,' Francis said, in a very determinedly calm voice, 'we do not have _monsters_.'

'Then I guess I'll have to visit you instead of the other way around,' Matthew said, grinning before he realized. His good humour vanished, replaced by chilling fear. 'I'm sorry, I-'

'What are you sorry for?' Francis sounded affectedly casual, even though his eyes snapped with nervous, fierce energy. He was at a loss for words, mouth dry. Francis smiled slow and bright. 'I don't mind, Matthew.'

He had to look away then, because his heart was threatening to beat right through his rib cage and give itself up to Francis.

'I normally tell people it's a battle wound,' he said. 'Well, I would, if anyone asked. I don't show it around. Alfred took my good shirt, and this one doesn't fit.' He was sure his ears were furiously red, and he was rambling nonsense.

'I'll buy you a new one,' Francis offered. If it was possible, his blush deepened.

'You don't have to.'

'My treat.' He offered his hand, and Matthew stared at it for a long moment while his dizzy brain started working again.

'Okay,' he agreed, bowled-over and lost to him. He took his hand.

0o0o0o

Francis led him to one of the stores on the glittering Ku'damm, full of wide eyes and golden light even this late at night. Matthew held tighter to his hand, every instinct in him demanding he let go and step away, but-he looked around and felt like laughing because there was so many other things to look at that he hardly felt out of place.

In the smaller shop, he dropped his hand under the guise of picking up a tie. Francis let him go, and a hot curl of shame and helplessness twisted in his gut. He wanted Francis to understand that he didn't want to, it was only that he knew what they must look like, and the jail penalty if they were assumed to be like that, and-and his head hurt even thinking about whether he wanted to be thought of that way or not.

'Matthew,' the murmur came, so soft he could have convinced himself he'd imagined it. He turned his gaze up and Francis looked at him without hate or disgust, only that smile just for him. Matthew was lost once again. Francis sat back, at a distance that could be called friendly, and gestured around.

'What's your type?'

For some reason, he found that funny, but rose and tried to find a shirt that he likes. Francis hummed softly by his side.

'Make a few choices,' he advised, picking up the sleeve of a simple white button-up in the pile of several nearly identical white button-ups. 'You can choose something colourful.'

Matthew felt his face grow hot. 'It's only that I'm used to wearing the army uniform.'

'I'm not blaming you. The armed forces have a way of crushing good fashion sense. You can see Arthur for that-but you would look good in something brighter.' Francis led him through to the back, full of loud fabric. Matthew stood bemusedly as he held up and bright yellows and piercing crimsons, tutting softly. Matthew shuffled his feet, feeling pale and washed out. Francis worked in the saturated colours, they brought him out of the world he already stood above.

'I'm not sure if this is working.'

'No, it's the clothes that are wrong. I just need to find-ah, how about this?' Francis picked up a different shirt, the collar folded and sharp, the fabric a peculiar, lovely shade. Matthew tilted his head at it, unsure if he'd call it pale blue or lavender. It was brighter than the rest of his wardrobe by far, but he wasn't opposed to it like he was the rest.

'It's lovely,' he said, astonished.

'It matches your eyes,' Francis said. Matthew's gaze flew up to him, unsure. Francis held it out. 'Do you want to try it on?'

Silently, he accepted it and ducked into the changing room. The few buttons at the collar were pearly, and the fabric was soft. It felt good on him, brave and warm, filling him with courage. He refused to ruin the feeling by looking into the mirror, and instead stepped out to meet Francis, eyes closed.

'Oh, dearest,' he heard, just a whisper, like a caught breath. A hand lingered at his neck, pulling the collar into place. 'Open your eyes.'

Matthew did, and saw awe reflected in his expression. That, more than anything, made him feel just as bright as Alfred.

'How do I look?' he asked, allowing himself to smile. Francis just turned him towards the mirror to see what was reflected-someone with the same eyes and face Matthew had been looking at for years, but with life in their wide grin and a flush spreading across their face. He stared, entranced.

'You're beautiful,' Francis said. Matthew turned to him in shock. His blue gaze held no humour, no respite. Their hands slid together.

'You shouldn't be calling me beautiful,' Matthew choked. He reached up and cupped Francis' cheek, feeling the roughness of stubble.

'Why not?'

'Because you're _you_,' he said. He nearly laughed-had Francis seen himself? 'You're incredible, and I'm just-'

'You are the most beautiful person I've ever met,' Francis said.

'I can't be.'

'If you can't see it, I will bring it out of you. You are a masterpiece.' His fingertips traced patterns on his wrist. Matthew was lightheaded. 'Believe me, dearest.'

He just closed his eyes and let that choking, ridiculous laugh work out of him. He couldn't believe the words, but some part of him was still lit up all over. 'Francis.'

'Matthew.' He could hear his smile. 'I will tell you until you can look into the mirror and see what I see now. Shall we go home?'

'I'd like that,' he said.

He was drifting until they were back at the gallery, every inch of him a mess of nerves and emotion.

'You're too kind to me,' he said. The weight of the shirt still made him feel good.

'Only kind enough in an unkind world.' Francis stroked back his hair. 'Do you...would you like your poem? Your friend Alfred has his, and I am not Feliciano, but…'

'I'd love it.'

Francis packed the canvas in a bag for him, humming a slow song. Matthew recognized the melody from the singer Alfred was always playing nowadays.

'Why did you buy me a shirt?' he asked. 'I love it, thank you-but why?'

'Why do you like the shirt?' Francis countered. He leaned against his work table with a smile. Matthew fumbled for an answer.

'It's...new, and feels brave.' He tried not to wince at his own poor explanation.

'Brave.' He nodded. 'Then that is reason enough. Though does an artist really need a reason? Maybe just because it makes you smile, and I love seeing you like this. My diamond in the rough.' Francis held out the bag. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. 'Will you come see me again?'

His courage swelled inside of him. 'Of course I will.'

**0o0o0o**

**Characters helping each other develop is my favourite thing.**

**_::Butterflies resting on concrete_**


	4. Chapter 4

The drab grey room high in one of the concrete skyscrapers that was Matthew's quarters had felt like a prison. The military was ruled and regulated until every ounce of beauty and gentleness was crushed away into the mud of trenches.

He hung the painting of the maple leaf where the light made the carefully applied paint sparkle, and the world felt a little bit better. Maybe that was the thing to remember about falling in love, he thought, letting himself linger on adjusting the canvas. You couldn't expect the world to stop being a churning war machine just because you were in love. Maybe he had expected that once, naively, maybe he still did, just because Francis made _his_ whole world fall over itself and rearrange better, but all love could do against the wars was to be something to come home to. A breath of fresh air. And that was enough for now.

Matthew ran fingertips across the silk of his shirt, adjusting the collar, and stepped into the bathroom under the slick fluorescent lights. His hair was missed and his cheeks were flushed still, and the collar made his head top up and his jaw look sharper. More determined, in a way.

He couldn't bring himself to take it off, not yet. He buttoned his rough army jacket over it and went down to the mess hall, feeling buoyed up and braver for it. At this hour, he didn't expect anyone to be there, but Alfred was sitting alone, hair sticking up, bomber jacket crumpled around his shoulders. He was drinking, blue eyes wide. Matthew sat down nearby.

'Morning, Al,' he said. Alfred looked up. His face was flushed, and he had- Matthew squinted, disbelieving- a bruise on his neck. 'Hey, you know you've got…' He gestured.

'I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Mattie,' Alfred whispered frantically, not listening. 'I met this guy, right, and he's- he's amazing, everything about him. He likes poetry and offered to tell me more about rock music, but now he won't because he left.'

'He got sent home?' Matthew hazarded. His stomach was twisting. Alfred was evidently drunk, his mouth slack and his eyes glassy, but the way he was speaking so openly about a _man_ made Matthew desperately want to hush him.

'No.' Alfred buried his face in his jacket. 'I'm so fucking- God, I shouldn't have been so forward.'

Matthew felt sick. He'd had his suspicions, casually, offhand, about Alfred's preferences, in the way his friend might have had about him, but to hear this made him want to deny everything. Everything except-

_Francis_.

He couldn't think of that now. He had to pretend like people like them always did.

'You told him you were…' Matthew's gaze lit on his mark again. 'Oh, Alfie.'

'Yeah.' Alfred touched his bruise, his eyelashes fluttering.

'He didn't feel the same?' Matthew asked gently. Alfred lived his life with his emotions too close to the surface, and he understood more of that now. Francis made him feel like he could rage and sing and fall all at once.

'No.' Alfred laughed, questioning, like he was still surprised at it himself. 'He did. And he- I kissed him.' His hand drifted to another mark on his collarbone. 'But now he's gone.'

Irrationally, the first thing Matthew felt was jealousy. He pushed it away. Now was not the time to be wanting Francis.

'Is he going to tell people about it?' he asked carefully.

'No. Arthur is _good_, Mattie. He's...I don't know how to describe it.'

'I understand,' he said. He felt the same ache.

Alfred finally seemed to notice him, and flashed a tired grin, his shadowed eyes brightening. 'You do?'

Matthew took his unattended glass, eyeing him over the rim, trying to hide his trembling grip. Whether it was from nervousness or release, he didn't know. 'Are you surprised?'

'Not really.' Alfred sat back and let him drink. 'Really. You don't mind, I don't mind. We gotta stick together.'

Matthew stared into his drink, taking a deep breath to feel it unknot through the tension in his chest. 'I guess.'

'So.' Alfred nudged his arm, in a better mood now. His eyes still held the weight of sadness, but some battles he would always fight alone. 'Who's yours?'

Inexplicably, he felt his face heat up. 'He's a poet.'

'Really? Artie would like him.'

'No.' Matthew almost chuckled. 'He knows Arthur. They're not friends.'

'Too bad.' Alfred folded his arms and rested his chin on them, yawning. 'If you're not going to tell me…'

'His name is Francis,' Matthew blurted. It felt good and bad and freeing, enough that he could relax enough to drink. Alfred grinned at him.

'I like that.'

Matthew offered a smile back, and they sat in peaceful silence, thinking their own thoughts until they went off to try to sleep.

0o0o0o

Francis knew it was stupid to walk near the Wall. The concrete was going up, the graffiti was making bright stains on the West side, and the guards still trained their guns on the East. It would only make him angry, furious and useless and hurt.

But he walked, back and forth, and then he finally sat and waited until he saw the unmistakable flash of white hair in the barbed wire. The sight made him want to rage and cry and spit out all the thoughts and hate that had been roiling under his tongue for these few months. He wanted to scream out every hateful, horrible name he knew at Gilbert Beilschmidt, and it still wouldn't be enough. Instead, he walked up to the fence.

'Hello, Gilbert.'

Gilbert didn't look surprised to see him. He gave that crooked, achingly familiar smile. His brow was marred with a healing wound, the same copper red as his eyes.

'Hey, darling,' he said softly. 'You shouldn't be talking to the enemy.'

Gilbert had no right to act like this, like nothing had happened between them. He was a turncoat. But Francis knew every line of his face and the scars of his body and the ways he was angry and scared and hurt all at once, and standing here, it was hard to think that the boy he'd watch love and live and burn had let the Wall happen, but he had. He gritted his teeth.

'You're a traitor,' he said.

'I know, darling.' All he could catch was the flash of emotion of his eyes before he laughed. 'I've heard. What, do you think I haven't? Better than running away from the only worthwhile thing we've ever done as soon as the going got rough, isn't it?'

There was the Gilbert he wanted. Slanting snarl, wolf eyes in the shade. It made it easier to hate him.

'I'm going to go talk to Ludwig,' Francis said smoothly. This time, the flash of pain over his face was open and raw, and he couldn't hide it in time.

'Francis,' he said. Francis steeled his anger into something cold.

'How do you feel about that?' he pushed. 'Throwing your baby brother out of the house? Are you proud of _him_ running away to a better life? Finally getting to be something that isn't tied to your bastard existence in this burned city, Gilbert?' He couldn't stop himself shouting, pouring out all his anger and hopelessness and grief. When he was done, he was heaving for breath, choking on his accusing words, his guilt at leaving.

'Yes,' Gilbert said finally, voice carefully calm. 'I'm proud of him.'

'The only good thing you've ever done,' Francis spat, but he couldn't force venom behind it. He turned on his heel and stalked away, his shoulders wanting to crumple in from exhaustion, but he kept them rigid. The outburst had taken everything from him.

'I love you, you know.' Gilbert's voice was faintly lilting, mocking, but under that was a question, hidden so far only Francis knew how to hear it.

Francis wished he didn't stop in his steps. They had all said that to each other once, when they were young and stupid and none of this had ever happened. Remembering that time now would only hurt.

'I don't.' He didn't look back, and kept walking. This time, it was easier to keep himself from falling into nothing.

He had left. When Antonio, drunk and distracted and raging, had told him everything, Francis had wanted to stay. He had wanted to finish what Mathias had done, tear something out of his best friend as payment for the hurt he'd caused. Antonio had taken his hands in his, palms together- one pale, one tanned, with the same artist's callouses- and promised them both that he'd kill Gilbert himself if he ever saw him again.

If Francis had been more like him, a revolutionary, a freedom fighter, he'd have brought a gun and put his angel back in hell.

Francis remembered the taste of the cigarette they'd shared, standing outside his old studio with the soaring, pale blue-grey roof. He remembered the moonlight in their hair and the prayer Antonio had led them through, the words a dull comfort. _Hail Mary, full of grace_. He remembered the way his lips had still been warm when Antonio pressed a dry kiss to his cheek and told him, those utterly familiar green eyes haunting and haunted with pain and amusement, to leave the East.

Francis remembered, and then he carefully locked the memories away. It was no use to dwell on those memories. What mattered was how the world was now, with enchanting Canadian soldiers who should have never been in the army. Francis raked hands through his hair with a groan, mouth twitching into a half-smile. How could he explain to Matthew everything that had happened when he was in the East? If he asked, Francis would tell, of course. He could never resist the look Matthew always gave him. However, he wouldn't tell of his own volition. It was better for the wondering, impossibly gentle boy to not know just how close war had been back there. Some days, it felt only millimeters from his fingertips, in the form of hard twists of muscle under pale skin.

He, with his messy history, with his ties to Gilbert and the resistance that was not nearly so glamorous as he pretended- he didn't deserve to be with anyone like beautiful Matthew. Yet he still came back, and he let Francis talk and gave him that wonderful _smile_.

He really was lost, wasn't he? Francis laughed and tipped his head back, gazing up into the steely sky. If he was going to be lost, at least this time it was to someone good.

Ludwig saw him before Francis noticed he'd gotten so close to the checkpoint. For someone so young, he looked impassive and authoritative in his uniform, and his eyes had a way of cutting someone down to the core. Francis felt like Ludwig could see that he'd already talked to his brother, and all his fears and hopes beside.

When he came closer, Ludwig's gaze flicked out, watching for anyone who might see. When he came back, he had a shadow, a suggestion of the boy Francis had once known underneath the steel.

'Francis,' he said cautiously, testing the waters. Francis forced a casual smile.

'I'm glad you haven't forgotten my name.'

Ludwig glanced out again, every muscle taut. 'I shouldn't be talking to you.'

'Did your brother tell you that?' Francis asked, and as soon as he did, regretted it. Ludwig was eerily still, face shadowed. His cautiously open expression hardened.

'No.'

Francis knew what Gilbert had done to make him leave. He hadn't been told, but some things you know after a decade and change of growing up with someone. Paint stained Ludwig's hands, blue and gold against the red-white blush of his knuckles.

'Feliciano,' Francis said. Ludwig started, eyes widening, his shell breaking open. Francis grabbed that moment of unguardedness and dug in. 'I know him. You saved him, didn't you? I heard the story.'

The story, of course, was more tragedy than romance, or so he would tell Matthew. An officer and an artist is never a happy ending. They were already being whispered about, and Francis hurt all the more for them.

His hands curled in on the gun, the rushes of metal biting into his hands.

'I did what I had to.' There was a burr to his voice then, saying it was not duty that led him.

Isn't that dangerous, Francis should have asked. But instead, he hazarded another smile, and held out his hand. 'He cares for you, you know. Even though you wear this uniform.'

Ludwig broke their gaze. 'I know, Francis. He's just so idealistic and-' He looked furious and confused all at once. 'He is. And I make foolish promises, but I mean them. For him.'

'Art has a way of doing that to you.'

'I have my duty,' Ludwig said quietly, more to himself than to Francis. 'Even for him, I don't think I can give that up. But I am willing to be less…' He stopped, frustrated again. 'I will not shoot to kill.'

'That's good,' Francis said softly.

'It's the best I can do.' Ludwig turned away, his chest heaving slightly. 'I'm sorry.'

'I'm not the one you should apologize to.'

He didn't answer. Francis dropped his gaze, gritting his teeth. Everything was stained with the bitter tang of disappointment. He should have expected this. Gilbert's influence still held him now.

'We shouldn't be talking,' he murmured again, voice flat and blank. 'Go.' Francis held his tongue and nodded, biting back the rest of his words. There was no use arguing with a Beilschmidt.

He wandered the backstreets, letting his thoughts drift, wondering offhandedly why he kept staying close to the concrete and barbed wire. Did the East still draw him? Gilbert would have said it was guilt, but Francis wouldn't listen to him.

He didn't know how long he spent absorbed in his thoughts, debating his own conscience, but the eyes across the border shocked him awake. This time, Gilbert didn't have his pretty words and his taunting smile. This time, he looked like the boy Francis had grown up with, on his bad days- a little hopeless and a little scared and bitter and bared-teeth about it all.

'There's tanks at the border,' he said. There was a flash of guilt, or pain, or memory on his face for a half second before he was gone behind the drab concrete again. Francis stayed frozen.

Matthew. With his pressed dark uniform and his fear of war, he would be thrust out there to face the East.

For all his selfish, foolish wondering, he'd forgotten the threat of war. He didn't have the luxury of forgetting such a thing, when Matthew and hope and peace all now hung in the balance.

He turned and started running towards base.

0o0o0o

Someone jostled Matthew awake, and he blearily pulled himself up, blinking away his sleep. Someone was shouting, and all around he could hear the clatter of people hastily pulling on uniforms. The sounds clattered around in his head, against his dreams of numbers and Francis

'Al?'

'Matt, come on, I needed to be down five minutes ago.' His friend's face was blanched white. 'There's tanks. We need the tanks at the border.'

Before he could say anything, laugh or scream or fall back down at the thought of the war, Alfred bent close to him, gripping his pale lavender collar.

'If I die up there-' He was gasping. 'Tell Artie I'm sorry. I love him. He knows I don't mean what happens. I don't want to bomb this city. Make him _understand_.'

And then he pulled away and was gone, running out the door and Matthew was left alone, with only a hollow terror at the prospect of what lay ahead.

Someone shouted, someone roughly pulled him out of bed and he pulled on his uniform with jerky movements. The apartment was full of discordant noise and the air was too thick. He tried to lose himself to the rhythm, the odd dance of controlling the metal beast that was a tank, but in the sound and fear he couldn't, he couldn't. He would lose everything to this fear. He could die here.

The air in the tank tasted of metal. The blood in his mouth tasted like metal, like war. Matthew rested his shaking hands on the controls and saw the ways that he could start a war, that he could ruin the world.

The bombers could be roaring, the order could have come to fire the shot that would echo across centuries. Matthew wouldn't hear it. All he could hear was the blood in his head and Francis' voice calling him _dearest_, played like a newsreel on repeat, over and over. In the last moments, Matthew saw the curve of his smile and the shade of his blue eyes and felt every heartbeat of that simpler, happier time, the breath of safety in the middle of this war.

Matthew closed his eyes and thought of how one night he'd charted the path of stars through his night sky, laid them out in careful numbers and laid back with his head buzzing and empty and open. If only the human pride that led to wars could be explained the same way. The collar of his shirt, where he'd forgotten to change, unwilling to let go of this small softness, fluttered with his breath. Maybe if he'd been able to map love the same way he mapped stars, in simple, calming equations, he wouldn't still be wondering what Francis tasted like.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Orange leaves in patchwork_**


	5. Chapter 5

For some reason, after the tanks, the lights of Berlin never seemed to shine quite as brightly.

He staggered away from the Wall, away from the order, away from the noise and the command and the pounding pain inside his head. He wandered the streets, because nobody had stopped him from leaving the base, nobody would have stopped the war that would have raged in this burned place, licking across the oil-spill seas and to the wild of home. Matthew felt claustrophobic in his own skin, trapped in range of guns and fire. If Canada wasn't safe for him, nowhere was.

It had only ever been a matter of where was safer, and here, it was surrounded by Francis' poems and his words and the weight of his memory. Here, the Wall drew back long enough to breathe. Here, Matthew watched the moonlight slide down the paint on the wall and stain stone and ink the same silver before he slept.

0o0o0o

Francis ran along the Wall, close enough to reach out and skim his fingers across the murals that bloomed like flowers with petals made of thick paint. The tanks rumbled already, looming and dark, and the sound and the shadows sent stabs of icy fear down his spine. He knew the feeling from the war, and he felt young and terrified again, but there was a hard core of anger that made him keep walking. The world had enough war and hate in it, and as long as Francis was alive, he'd take up the uniform of art to make sure people like Matthew didn't pull the trigger to start another country aflame.

The concrete checkpoint gave way to steel and a heavy door. Francis shouldered through and gazed at the men inside, who jumped to attention, guns out, British uniforms still crooked around the edges. They weren't soldiers any more than Matthew was, and Francis felt no hate for them, only sadness.

'He said nobody would cross,' one muttered, looking him up and down in the wary way that one would to judge an unfamiliar animal, like he was checking for spines or teeth. Francis could have laughed, but he drew himself up and cast a glance across them.

'I'm not trying to cross. I am looking for a Canadian soldier named Matthew Williams. He's a tank gunner.'

The soldiers looked like that was even worse than attempting to cross. Their guns were at least lowered, and one leaned forward, eyebrows crinkled sympathetically.

'We can't access the tanks,' he said. 'Chasing after a single Canadian soldier when they're half a guess from firing is mad.'

'It's what I have to do,' Francis insisted. 'He's important to me.'

'We all have people like that,' one said, with straighter shoulders than the rest. 'But you can't do him any favours by making yourself the target they'll start the war on. Go home.'

'What about you?' Francis asked, even though he knew it was pointless. 'What if you die here?'

'We try not to,' one said softly. 'But it's not our choice.'

It never had been. Francis let himself be escorted out and wandered the empty streets like a ghost, wondering if this would be the last. It felt wrong that he could not do anything against the possibility of war. The world was still too close to the iron grip of real war, harsher occupation, worse for everyone.

The sky forgot to notice when the nukes weren't dropped, the faint moon forgot to shine brighter and the wind forgot not to gust. The only things that began to live again when their own petty challenges had backed down were the people who came out to watch the sun again, blinking in the light, the same grey as before. Francis _needed_ Matthew and his soft colours, his untainted memories of the wild. If the world stayed the same and only the weapons of rage changed, he wanted to see them through lavender and honey curls more than anything else.

Matthew was sleeping on his table when he came in, the door gently closed behind him. Francis sat down at the table with him, taking in the shadows in his hollow cheeks and under his sunken eyes. He still remembered what he'd looked like smiling, and laughing momentarily, but the idea of more than that, of Matthew laughing without wondering who would think of him, felt impossible now. There was only the stars and the glass warping silver and them, here. Francis made to rise, but when the metal chair creaked, Matthew shifted, eyes shocking open wide, gleaming pale and reflective with tears. His throat felt thick. Matthew must have had a nightmare that was nothing more than fresh memory, and the knowledge hovered between them, unvoiced until Matthew gasped, a heart-wrenching, choking noise, and buried his face back into his arms.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured, and Francis' heart broke all over again for everything of him.

'It's okay,' he said, even though it wasn't. Matthew let him raise his head from the curl of his arms and trace lines across his face. 'You fell asleep in your glasses?' he added sadly.

Matthew laughed, blankly, emptily, and allowed him to pull them off and fold them, blinking wide-eyed and blurry. Francis carefully cradled his face and the red mark left where he'd slept on the table and ached for this tenderness.

'It's not okay, is it?' Matthew said, eyes half-lidded. 'Francis, I could have started the war.'

'You didn't,' Francis said firmly.

Matthew turned to him, looking shattered. 'What if I had?'

If he had? They would be dead. Everything here, every smear of paint and curl of paper would be reduced to ash. They'd be trapped in metal and concrete as the city vaporized.

Matthew read him, knew his hesitation and smiled sadly before it slid down his face and crumpled.

'I can't kill like that.'

'I know.' He stroked his hair. 'You never should have been forced to try.'

'I've never met anyone who-' Matthew yawned. '-who knows what war is like and wants to go back.'

Francis was about to agree until he remembered Gilbert, how he'd never really left battle, all steel and bared teeth. He bit the words back and held them in his throat, where they prickled. 'Good.'

'Do you think I'm a coward?'

Francis looked down at him, horrified. 'No. No, you're brave. Braver than many.'

'Oh.' Matthew's gaze slid across him, unfocused with sleep. 'Why?'

'I told you. You're gentle.' Francis tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. 'I'd rather be gentle than cruel.'

His mouth turned into a small smile. 'I'm glad. Glad you're...with me.'

'Always,' Francis breathed. The curls of his hair were spilled out across the table, and Francis ran his hand through them.

Matthew was more than half-asleep now, and Francis shook himself away and helped him up.

'What are you…' Matthew yawned again. 'Why?'

'You're going to bed,' Francis said firmly, leading him down the street to the apartment.

'Camp's back there.'

'You're too tired for camp,' Francis said, pushing down the shade of guilt at his own feelings, that he just wanted to be near Matthew, feel physical warmth and pressure of sleep and nothing more. Luckily or unluckily, he didn't protest again, and he finally made it up the stairs and collapsed on the bed. Francis tugged his uniform jacket off, electing to leave the trousers on. The moonlight was turning rosy, and he wandered the tiny apartment for a timeless pause, arranging his things as if it was only a regular night. The sun would still rise just as beautifully in a few hours, regardless of planes with nukes or soldiers.

When he settled on his couch with a blanket he'd scrounged up, a hand found the sleeve of his sleep shirt. Francis froze.

'Matthew,' he warned, more for himself than him. The grip tightened, and he found more lucid, alert eyes. He was propped up on one elbow like he'd been watching.

'You wanted me to stay,' he said. Sleep hovered around his expression and the slack ease of his movements, but he was awake. Matthew slid out of bed, and his thin undershirt caught on the thin blankets, exposing the smooth planes of his torso, the muscles interrupted by the moose scar, and the surprising definition of his back. Francis knew he couldn't take his eyes off it, and so did Matthew. He could see it in the gleam of his eyes.

'I did,' he said, as if through a veil. Matthew held out his hand, and Francis stared.

'Come here,' Matthew said, somehow like a plead and a command all at once. Francis couldn't say no. He never could, and slipped into his small bed beside him. Matthew was all awkward limbs and gentle angles growing into their lengths, and Francis could see clear as day the unsure glint in his gaze beyond the new boldness. Francis gathered him close, easing them into the newness until they could both fit together on the small mattress, tangled limbs and heads resting in the crooks of each others' shoulders. Heat radiated between them.

'You've never kissed me properly.' Matthew swallowed, the knob of his throat moving. Here, Francis could appreciate how tall he really was, how beautiful every part of him seemed to be, and God, he wanted to, had always wanted to, but he held onto himself.

'Do you want me to?'

His hesitant expression contorted in an incredulous near-giggle for a second, and Francis had to take a deep breath to stop from breaking his resolve right then. 'What kind of a question is that?'

'Tell me, Matthew,' Francis said, surprised at the huskiness of his own voice. The humour drained from his eyes.

'I want you to kiss me.' He raised his head, pale eyes blazing and intense. 'I think...I have wanted to kiss you for a long time.'

'Matthew.' He couldn't breathe, just focus on the shape of his mouth, trying to memorize this. 'My dearest.' _You masterpiece_.

'Francis.' He smiled and the monotone grey even the tanks had not been able to break melted away. Francis felt his hands sliding into his hair and pulling him down, and then the gentle press of mouth to mouth. For a moment, they rocked together and Francis existed only in the soft gasp Matthew made and the taste of maple on his tongue.

He never wanted to stop, but he had to or he'd go too far. When he broke away, Matthew made a frustrated, needing groan that made Francis almost reconsider. He held them both back, forcing himself not to ruin them both too fast.

'You're tired. Tomorrow,' he said, silencing Matthew's protests. 'Tomorrow, if you liked it.'

'Tomorrow,' Matthew echoed fiercely. Francis wondered if he understood that he would break apart if he didn't at least stop now, what everything this was would do to them. He thought he did.

Francis kissed his forehead one last time and waited until even his sparking intensity had faded to sleep to slip away to the couch and dream his own memories before sleeping.

0o0o0o

The morning dawned gauzy and Matthew laid in bed blinking before it rushed back. The nightmares of tanks and the dreams of having Francis, both impossible things that had happened in this city.

'Are you awake?'

Matthew pushed himself up on an elbow, squinting into the pale darkness. 'Yes.'

His expression was draped in shadow and fondness. 'You have to go back to camp soon.'

His heart sank, wondering for a moment if the wonderful memory of kissing Francis was only a dream. Francis sat forward and pulled him to standing, swaying in the glowing living room in the early morning.

'I promised you, did I not?' he asked, smiling. He nodded, and his expression grew serious. 'Matthew.' Francis was looking at him, alert and almost nervous. It was strange to see him nervous, when Matthew was buzzing and hyper-aware of how awkward he must be compared to Francis. He wanted him.

'Yes?'

'Have you heard of what they call the 'little death'?'

Matthew tried to remember, and his face flushed. Francis' expression softened for a moment.

'Yes.'

'Good.' Francis crossed to him, and cupped his face in his hands. His kiss was gentle, nearly chaste. Matthew pulled away, itching with heat and want and memory of last night. They'd kissed better for a perfect moment before they'd had to stop.

'You shouldn't talk to me of little deaths and then kiss me like that.'

Francis looked amused, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. 'How should I?'

Matthew leaned forward and kissed him firmly. Francis tasted more like sweet smoke, and this time, he didn't stop them.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Wooden platforms overgrown with wildflowers_**


	6. Chapter 6

The pale light and the rough fabric of the couch under his back made a sort of art in themselves, written with Francis' crooning accent, telling him _beautiful_ and _dearest_ like it was fact and they were people who didn't love between being soldiers for hopeless causes and soon-to-be casualties.

'You told me about your home,' Francis said, between touching his collarbone and the skin showing between his shirt and the waistband of his boxers, sliding his uniform off like a butterfly from the chrysalis. 'I think I would like to go there. Somewhere safe.'

'You said there were monsters there.' He shivered as Francis brushed a fingertip across his scar.

'I would brave them if you wanted.' His voice dropped, and he slowly unbuttoned the pale lavender shirt. Matthew wanted to touch him back, but his head was so full of smoke and Francis' voice that all he could do was hold on.

'You're brave,' he finally said.

'Really?' Even with the pearly light making his face nothing more than planes and shadows, he could see the sad surprise. 'I want to be somewhere safe. Danger isn't the drug for me like it is for my friends.'

'There's nothing wrong with that.'

'I know that. The world might not for a while.' He brushed back his hair, eyes staring into a different time. 'Artists like me- _avant-garde_, that's what we're called, aren't supposed to love for more than a night. That's what one told me. Something about focusing on our art.'

_Isn't this art_, Matthew wanted to say, about how they moved together. Francis seemed to understand, and amusement flicked through his shining eyes for a second.

'This is better,' he whispered, and finally the shirt was off and his skin tingled.

'Keep talking,' he pleaded back. When Francis wasn't speaking, the memories of the tanks hung heavier and darker. He allowed him to take off his clothes and whispered reassurance against his neck.

'Beautiful, Matthew, my dearest. You're safe. You're safe.'

The light silvered Francis' hair and the curve of his spine, the arch of his back and the clink of the jar of cream, and Matthew felt everything as if Francis was working him open instead, rattling through his body and forcing the breath from his lungs.

'Francis, _oh_.'

'Shh,' Francis soothed again, balanced over him, eyes wide and hair mussed. Matthew could feel unshed tears collecting in his throat, prickling at his eyes, and made an incoherent plead, one hand in his hair and one digging into his hip. His body was _burning_. He knew he should loosen his grip, but if he did, he might fall apart right then.

Francis kissed him, deep and slow, whispering endearments until Matthew was wavering on the edge, and finally sunk down on him.

'You are a masterpiece,' he said, and every catch in his voice pushed him closer. 'Perfect.'

Matthew heard himself cry out again, _love you_ or _you're the perfect one_. He twisted to try to hide his face, knowing tears streaked down his cheeks, and Francis guided him back, meeting him in a kiss. There was a scar over his solar plexus, and below that, a harsh mark that looked like a bullet wound. Matthew couldn't take his eyes off them. They were so wrong, for his Francis to have been hurt so badly.

'You deserve to be safe,' he said. His grip was tight enough to leave bruises, and he wanted to kiss them, kiss the scars and promise him a better world.

'Matthew.' His movement slowed, and he caressed his face, pain written where it shouldn't be. 'I wish. I wish.'

Before he could say anything more, Francis started moving again, and he forgot speaking and thinking and the world outside them for a while longer.

0o0o0o

Alfred wasn't there when he got back to base. All he could think of was the blur and liquid heat of that morning hour in the apartment and a final kiss on his cheek. His uniform was too tight and stiff now that he knew what Francis felt like against him. For some people, they got drunk on danger, but for him, it was skin on skin and their names twining.

He couldn't feel the crush of people around him or hear the shouts. He stumbled back upstairs and tried to sleep, but he only woke up with a longing for safety, his home in Canada or Francis, and always running from the rumble of tanks. Finally, he buried himself in math and numbers, and his brain was quiet.

Not everything was made up of the equations he knew. People were cruel and hateful without reason, but they could be just as wonderful and strange and amazing. What were the chances, written out in astrological time, that Francis and him would have been this? If humans were equations that built themselves from everything that happened to them, how did it happen that they worked out so perfectly?

He wasn't an artist, but he wanted to make a mark on the world to show it how he felt for a snapshot second. The charcoal lines were clumsy, but he kept trying until he'd drawn the moon cresting over the roofs of the art gallery the way it had looked the first night, and slowly began to fill the spaces of shadow with numbers. It was geometric and natural at the same time, and he felt light after the lines were on the paper instead of swirling in his head.

Only then did he strip out of his clothes and wrap himself in his blankets to sleep, sore and longing still, but sated. He would see Francis again, and the world was still breathing, not at war yet. He would continue, and there would be more of how he'd had last night. He held out his hands, amazed, clearly remembering how Francis' skin had felt.

It was a few weeks until the hanging peace shattered.

Shouting outside shook him awake, and he threw on his uniform and opened the door, frowning. Men crowded the hallway, cursing at each other and with red faces.

'Fucking queers,' one of them spat. Matthew's blood ran cold. His words felt like dust on his tongue, and his limbs like wet sand. One of the men noticed him, and glared, lips pulling back from his teeth.

'You got something to say?'

'What happened?' Matthew asked. His own voice sounded alien and scratchy. One of the men had a bloody nose that had run down his jaw. His fuzzy head registered that some of them had British uniforms instead.

'Jones.' The one with a broken nose spat out some blood. 'The pilot. We were just having a friendly conversation and he decides to jump in on us.'

'Really?' Matthew's heart was pounding and his nails dug into the wood. What had Alfred done?

'It's because of Arthur,' one of the men in British uniform snarled, wiping at his black eye. 'Should have known he was one of those. Wait until command finds out.'

Alfred. That stupid, lovestruck, loud man. He'd be lucky if he made it through the next few days without getting thrown into jail.

'I'm going downstairs to eat,' Matthew said jerkily, locked his door, and stumbled away from the knot of men, still growling at their wounds. He checked the field before leaving with some ridiculous half-formed plan to find Alfred in the city and bring him back.

He stopped at the art gallery, but the Thunderbird was gone and Francis wasn't there. He asked around if anyone had seen him, but nobody knew. He hoped he hadn't run off to the East again, and the thought added another weight in his stomach.

He sat down in one bar after half an hour, fuming and stressed, his Army jacket bunched under his arm. Someone grabbed his shoulder.

'You're safe?'

'What?' Matthew snapped, annoyed. The man let go suddenly.

'You're not Alfred, are you?'

'I'm Matthew,' he said. 'I know, we look alike.'

'Sorry, man.' He sat down beside him, and Matthew jumped back at the bruise that was swelling on his face.

'What happened to you?'

'Bar fight.' He tapped the multicoloured bruise with what might have been pride. It was hard to tell from behind the black eye. 'Alfred and Arthur helped us out.'

'Against a few men in British and American uniforms?' Matthew asked cautiously. 'They just came back to my camp bloodied up.'

'We did a number on them, damn right.' He beamed. 'My name's Jett.'

'It's nice to meet you, Jett,' he said honestly. He was impressed. 'Do you know where Alfred went?'

'He ran off. Probably for the better.'

'That's the problem.' Matthew sighed and set down his jacket, waving for a drink. 'Everyone knows- everyone thinks he's got...preferences now.'

'Lay off it,' Jett snorted. 'He'd give Kirkland the world, and you know it. You're that way, too, aren't you?'

Matthew nearly spat out his drink. 'How do you-'

'You get a knack for it after a bit,' Jett bragged. He nodded to a soldier at the other end of the bar, who casually raised his glass without looking over. 'He's mine.'

'Oh.' Matthew ducked back into his collar, not meeting Jett's bright forest-green eyes. 'I am...like you. But the problem is that _Alfred's been reported for it_ by those men you fought!'

Jett grimaced. 'Shit. What's your penalty?'

'Five years in jail,' Matthew said humourlessly. 'I need help.'

Jett stared into his glass for a moment before pushing it away. The man at the end stood up and followed them out.

'Kiwi,' Jett introduced briefly, brushing a hand through his curly hair, and then tilting his head towards Matthew. 'Meet Matt. He's Alfred's friend.'

'What happened?' Kiwi asked.

'Alfred's going to be jailed.'

Kiwi glanced at Jett for a moment. They seemed to come to an agreement.

'It's our fault the fight started,' Jett said. 'Well, mostly my fault. Matt, I'm sorry.'

'What do I need to do?' Matthew demanded, eyes stinging.

'You need to keep yourself from going the same way,' Jett said sternly. 'You're not going to like it, and neither is Alfred, but you need to make sure he doesn't see Arthur anymore.'

For a moment, all he could see was the look in Alfred's eyes when he'd talked about Arthur, so hopeful. He couldn't ruin that.

'I'm sorry, Mattie.'

'Don't call me Mattie,' he mumbled. His eyes stung, but his voice didn't shake. 'Alfred calls me that.'

'I'm sorry.' He did sound sorry, but there was no room for compromise in his voice. 'You know what you have to do.'

Matthew just turned around and left, trudging through the streets. It wasn't Jett or Kiwi's faults, it was the world that felt wrong.

0o0o0o

He was drunk when he finally found Alfred, drunk in the way he almost never was, head aching like slush and the dirty water collecting in the gutters, and all the numbers that hummed in his head fell to pieces. It wasn't his fault, wasn't his goddamn _responsibility_ to take care of Alfred and walk him through being careful with his affections.

It wasn't Alfred's fault, either. He was just built for loud, brash love, but it felt good and vindictive to see him sitting on the curb and let himself think _this is all because of you_, even if some of the things he'd caused were anything but bad.

'Alfred, you fucking idiot,' he snarled, stalking over to him.

'Matt? What happened?'

'You did.' He struggled to find an explanation in his hazy head. 'You can't see Arthur anymore.'

His eyes blazed and he surged to his feet, looking as dangerous as Matthew had ever seen.

'What? Matt, what goddamn _right_ do you have-'

'Don't get angry with me,' Matthew roared back, too many months of anger and frustration spilling out of him. This is all your fault, he could have said. He stepped towards him and Alfred shrank for the first time he'd seen, shoulders curling inwards inside his jacket, looking away. Matthew should have felt worse about it. He didn't, just watched him warily.

'You fought some men in a bar.'

'They were saying what they shouldn't have,' he muttered.

'I know. Believe me.' Matthew felt far too tired now, his anger leached away. As angry as he was, he hated hurting his friend, and hated other people hurting him even more. 'They reported you, Alfie. You need to go back to base.'

'No,' Alfred said, an edge of panic in his voice. His eyes were wild, unseeing. Matthew had seen it in animals just before they died, and just like he had to the bloodied deer and trapped foxes in his forests, he tried to soothe him.

'I'm sorry.'

Alfred retreated from the touch, wrapping himself tighter in his jacket. Matthew understood that. 'Does Arthur know?'

He couldn't answer for a moment, words stuck in his throat. He didn't want to be the person who hurt Alfred like this, and lowered his voice to the quiet tone he used for downed birds.

'He will.'

He left Alfred huddled on the step outside the art gallery. He couldn't face Francis now, not when the implications and promise of a trial with no winner still lay like oil on his tongue. He lost count of how many more drinks and bars it was until he saw Jett and Kiwi again. They said nothing. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done, but they helped him home in quiet, bitter solidarity.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Spontaneous speeches _**


	7. Chapter 7

The camp was buzzing with whispers about Alfred's trial. Alfred stopped coming to the mess hall and disappeared after training to wander the city or pretend to fix his bomber. All Matthew could ever hear was rumours and questions and eager, hushed speculation about the dawning trial and their golden pilot boy. Matthew stayed in his room and buried himself in bad alcohol and his math. Outside in the hallway, the men jeered.

He wanted to be anywhere but there, but the fear of getting tried for the same crime if he went to see Francis tied him to the base like a chained dog. There was nothing to do but breathe in the still, warm air and wait until the trial day.

Matthew wore his second best shirt and settled into the pews, slipping between the masses of officers and pilots, hiding away from the men swaying on their feet at the back and the ones grinning with flushed faces in the very front rows. Nobody noticed him. Alfred looked like a man destroyed, blue eyes empty and lifeless. It looked so _wrong_ that Matthew had to look away until he sat down. The silence fell like a tangible thing before the judge began speaking.

'Move over,' someone whispered next to him. Jett, dressed more formally than he'd ever seen, shuffled closer and sat down carefully. His eyes were empty in the same way. They met eyes and Matthew had nothing to say, no comforting words or pleads for the same.

'Alfred,' Matthew said. The rest stuck in his thorny throat. Jett nodded.

'We've done everything we can. Arthur...Arthur knows what to do.' He gripped his shoulder and squeezed once before they sat apart again and watched the world fall down.

If it was him and Francis up there, Matthew thought hazily, would he be able to pretend he didn't love him like he loved the stars? He liked to imagine that just because he wasn't as visible as Alfred, or Francis wasn't army as well, that they were safe, but the truth was that every time they were so much as _seen_ together they risked everything.

Ridiculously, irrationally, Matthew wondered if there would ever be a time where he could take Francis' hand in public and not look over his shoulder first. It was just _love_, and they deserved it, didn't they? It was harder to believe that when Alfred gave his witness with shaking hands and a voice devoid of anything. Arthur watched him as he did, looking entranced with every movement, and so sad, so _forgiving_. It wasn't their fault, but Alfred would always, always think it was. He sat down and his head drooped forward, staring blankly out at nothing.

The officer at the witness box stood up and began to speak. Beside him, Jett let out a ragged breath, hands fisting in the fabric of his trousers.

'Thank God,' he whispered. His eyes shone unnaturally with tears in the room's harsh white lighting. 'I thought...oh God, I can't keep saving people.'

'You have to,' Matthew pleaded under his breath. Jett didn't move.

'It's not that I want to stop. It's that one of these days, Kiwi and I are going to run out of luck.'

Matthew watched the officer conclude his testimony, and the odd, frantic look he shared with Arthur with a heartbeat. The spiteful knot of tension in Arthur's brow smoothed out and he looked nearly smiled, at peace finally. The officer sat back down carefully. The blood was rushing in Matthew's ears and he was so _scared_, in a sick and cowardly way, that it would be him next.

'We deem the charge against infantryman Arthur Kirkland for gross indecency to be true,' the judge finally proclaimed to the silent room. 'The verdict is guilty.'

The room exploded back into sound. Next to him, Jett sunk his head into his hands and whispered a broken prayer. Arthur turned to face the crowd with nothing but vicious pride and his head held high. Beside him, Alfred still hadn't moved, curled into his hands, still like he was never supposed to be. He looked dead, like the beautiful terrible machine of him had finally lost its kinetic energy.

Matthew couldn't watch. He'd wanted to stay for Alfred, but he couldn't bear it. If he stayed any longer, the great grey panic inside of him would swell up and drag him down or his head would split open down the middle and spill out too much love for a beautiful poet and the wilds and other understanding and understandable things.

Nobody noticed him leave.

In the streets, he drifted between bars until they all blurred. He'd drank himself sick before, homemade moonshine and whiskey under the stars with nothing but the mountains and the night and his own humour to occupy the time, but he'd never drank like this. This was from a need to make time start ticking backwards or to fix a huge empty space that couldn't be fixed or change the world or a million other impossible things. It was, at the very least, to forget for a few hours, and after the third or fifth place and too much smoke from pipes he'd accepted without thinking even once, he did start forgetting that there was anything good at all. English and French lost shape in his head and soon after so did math, and when numbers lost their feeling and feeling lost its meaning at all, only then did he stop.

It was better that way. He laid on a bench under a streetlight and stared up at the pinpricks of stars the city hadn't broken up and devoured alive yet, like it did to everything else. His heart was thudding in his ears and he felt so sick and scared and alone, utterly alone and exhausted. He should go to help Alfred or find someone or go home, and by that he meant _home_, Canada and the Great Lakes and places where nobody would ever find him again. _Francis_, was his last thought, _I miss you too much_.

He closed his eyes and let the lurking darkness of fatigue take him.

0o0o0o

He woke up in a place much warmer and softer than a bench. Someone was rustling around in a nearby room, pots and utensils clinking quietly with the reassuring rush of running water. It was a safe sound, a good sound, not harsh on his throbbing head. The lights were dim, but once his eyes adjusted he realized his was back in Francis' place. When he tried to sit up, pain split through his skull again and he crumpled back down. The utensils clattered back into the sink and Francis rushed to his side, holding onto him.

He turned, every moment thick and slow. Everything ached. Francis made a sound, a sob, hysterical and grateful.

'Matthew,' he said, voice trembling. Matthew took his hand, even if the effort tired him. Francis gripped his fingers and brought them to his mouth, pressing his lips against them in a desperate kiss. His eyes were shimmering with tears. Myths floated through his head in scraps, and if he opened his mouth in the bars all that had come out was a jumble of nonsense about facing terrible empires and David or Goliath. His thoughts wouldn't fit together until Francis touched him, hand cool on his burning cheek.

'I couldn't defeat the giant,' he said. It didn't make sense. Francis shook his head, another soft noise crawling from his throat.

'Oh, my dearest Matthew. Your country should have never sent you to fight. You are not built for war. You have an artist's heart. You have _my_ heart.'

Matthew just gazed at him, too empty inside to be anything but numb. He wanted to reassure him and tell him all the love declarations he could, that he always had his heart as well, but he was tired. The threat of war drained him. The impossibility and fear of the trial had taken all the hope he never wanted to lose.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured, fighting against the last staining clouds of dirty-snow drugs. 'I'm so sorry, Francis.'

'Not your fault,' Francis soothed, brushing the hair back from his face. 'It's not your fault, dearest. Arthur knew what he was doing.'

'You know about the trial?' he asked far too late. Francis looked bemused.

'Of course. The community of people like...me here pays attention to that sort.'

'Like us,' Matthew insisted. Francis pressed his lips together, holding back.

'You saw the trial,' he said softly.

'I did. And it scared me,' he admitted. 'What if it was me? What if it was _us?'_

Francis hesitated and turned away, wiping at his face. 'I am sure my resistance thinks I am a coward,' he said, '-but I will always try to save you, if you'll let me. No matter what it costs me.'

'But-'

'Matthew,' Francis said, and silenced him with a soft kiss to his forehead. 'You, my maple leaf soldier, are worth so much more than some old poet.'

'I love you,' Matthew protested. Francis smiled sadly, a tear shining on his cheek.

'I love you too, so much.'

Matthew blinked up at him, sated for a moment. 'How did you find me?'

'It was an accident. Matthew, mon Dieu, when I saw you, laying there and barely breathing, I thought…' His lip trembled. 'Why would you do such a thing?'

'I'm sorry.' He pulled him closer and Francis slipped into the bed beside him, kissing his eyelids. Heat soaked through his chilled body. 'I just wanted to stop thinking.'

'I know. I have done the exact same thing.' He sighed, gazing down at him. 'I am so sorry the world has shown you this side of it so young.'

'You're not much older.'

'I am old enough,' Francis said. 'And I made the choice to jump into this world. You never did.'

'I'll choose it,' Matthew said. The drugs and exhaustion were working through him, and his words were slurred. 'If it was with you.'

Francis kissed his hair again. Matthew could taste tears and didn't know who's they were.

'My brave, beautiful Canadian,' he murmured. 'You would take on the whole world.'

'I could,' he began. Francis shook his head.

'For now, just stay with me. Here, or somewhere in your wilds, or my home in France. My hero.'

''M not the hero.'

'You are to me.' He eased himself away as if to go, and Matthew held on.

'Stay,' he slurred. 'Until I can sleep. And beyond that.'

Francis sighed, fond and always terribly sad.

'Always,' he whispered, tucking them both back in. Matthew only felt safe from the trial then, as his thoughts finally calmed into the quiet between their heartbeats.

0o0o0o

Francis let him sleep in when the morning came. He looked exhausted, grey and skeletal.

'Sleep well, my maple leaf,' he told him, wrapping the blankets tighter around his chilled hands before he slipped out of the house with a note left on the kitchen table even if he doubted Matthew would wake before noon, with the amount of intoxicants he'd taken. The sheer volume should have killed him outright and Francis pushed back the cold inside at the thought. He knew what had driven him to that point and it had driven him, too, out of the house to try to find anyone or anything to fix it in some stupid way.

Matthew was too good for war, too unsullied, too unlike him. Francis had always feared for him, but the worst thing was knowing that he couldn't stop it, that the trial had hurt him so badly.

He wanted to go see Arthur. Experience- too much experience, and too many people lost- told Francis he'd be at least on house arrest down at the base, and exactly where to find him.

The guards let him in with a lot of cajoling and the promise of two bottles of wine under the table. When he knocked on the door to the apartment, it didn't open for a long time. Francis was worrying they'd imprisoned him properly when the door was jerked open and Arthur looked him up and down with disdain. He was dressed well, almost too formally, but the scent of alcohol lingered on him.

'Oh. It's you, frog,' he muttered. 'It's just been the captains at my door for hours. Still, I thought you might have been…'

'Where is Alfred?'

Arthur's face contorted. 'The commanders won't let him go. They're dealing with his image or something, and I understand, but…'

Francis pushed the door further open.

'Can we talk?'

'I don't need to be caught with another man in my rooms,' Arthur muttered, letting him in.

The room was full of fumes. Francis coughed and went to open a window.

'I heard about your trial,' he said.

'And I'm sure you've seen all the lies they say about it,' Arthur said. His chin jutted out even as he sank down in a chair and reached for one of the beer bottles on the table. Francis swept them up before he could reach it and dumped them promptly in the sink, followed by the mess of bottles on the counter. Arthur glared at him.

'I need those.'

'No, you don't,' Francis snapped. 'What would Alfred think of you?'

Arthur pushed himself up from his chair and staggered towards him, shoving him hard back against the cabinets.

'Don't you _dare_,' he snarled. His skin smelled metallic with alcohol, and his eyes were wild. 'You have _no right_ to tell me that, not when I'm a week from losing the only good thing I've ever known.'

'I know.' Francis took the first reckless blow on his brow and gritted his teeth through the dull spread of pain, trying to hold back Arthur's fury. 'I know, Arthur.'

'What would you know?' he spat, violently shoving him again and stalking away, raking hands through his hair. 'Here's something you should know. Here's something everyone should know. I lied. We both lied to save him and _I don't regret it at all.'_

'You love him,' Francis said simply. Arthur scoffed, the sound tipping into a broken noise.

'Of course I do. I love him so much, that's why I agreed to this. Anything, _anything_ is worth his happiness. I'd give everything for him, but for this, it'll never be enough.'

They stood in the kitchen in the quiet, Francis' arms and cheek already bruising. He knew what Arthur was feeling, the helplessness of it, and he didn't blame him for any of it.

Arthur collapsed back into his chair and laughed, shattered and choking and hopeless.

'God, Francis. I love him. I love a bloody _American_, and a pilot to boot, who's the most aggravating, incredible, frustrating, beautiful person in the whole world.' His eyes slid half-closed, shimmering green. 'He taught me how to stargaze, you know. I had hoped that after this was all over we could…' He trailed off. 'I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but I was hoping to get that poetry book I pawned back for him.'

'He sounds good for you,' Francis said gently. Arthur chuckled bitterly.

'He deserves better than I can give.' He raised his hands, imitating the position of manacles. 'Look at me.'

'Can you keep a secret?' Francis asked. They weren't so different in this, him and Arthur, though he would never repeat it.

'Who would I tell?'

'Your Alfred knows a soldier. A tank gunner, a Canadian.' He was suddenly nervous, fluttering like a teenager. 'His name is Matthew Williams and I love him.'

Arthur opened his eyes and for the first time, Francis saw him smile.

'And he's too good for you,' he said softly. Francis nodded.

Silently, as if by agreement, they threw out the rest of the bottles together before Francis left.

'You might want to ice that eye,' Arthur added as he left, the closest they got to an apology. Francis knew it might be the last he ever saw of this British soldier who he'd hated so completely so quickly. True enmity was hard to come by these days.

'And somehow I still look better than you,' he said with a smile. Arthur groaned and shut the door in his face, but Francis knew he looked happier.

He settled the wine debt and walked home lighter. Back in their bedroom, Matthew was still sleeping, hair like honey on his pillow. Francis smiled and slipped in beside him, curling into his warmth. He was tired and charged and sated, and it might be easier for both of them to let the day pass them by.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Road trips on highways lined with pine trees_**


	8. Chapter 8

When Matthew woke up, Francis was tucked into his arms. He looked exhausted, less polished, the man hidden behind the poet. Matthew loved all of him. He was touched more than be could express that Francis would let him see this part of him.

When he touched him, Francis startled awake, starved fingers closing around his wrist. The irrational panic in his gaze faded and he let go.

'Sorry, dear. It seems my body still remembers the East.'

'I'll help make new memories,' Matthew blurted out, and nearly buried himself back into the pillows in embarrassment. Francis laughed, a delighted and delightful sound.

'I'll take you up on that.'

'What happened here?' Matthew asked, cautiously skimming a blooming bruise around his eye with his thumb.

Francis smiled. 'Just visiting a friend.'

Still, their lives weighed on them both. Awake, Francis' shoulders slumped and he sighed, looking out to the blue hour of the city. A smile twitched around his mouth.

'We slept the day away.'

'That's okay.'

'Is it? Did you have drill?'

'I don't care.' Matthew rolled his bare legs out of the blankets, working the night from his muscles, staring out into the brightly cluttered room, far away. Francis made a soft sound of appreciation when he stretched his shoulders, and his face heated. 'One day, nobody will ever wake up with a gun in their hands again. No more drill. No more war.'

'I hope,' Francis whispered. 'The new weapons, the atom bombs your friend Alfred flies...I worry that there's no way to return from those.'

Francis had voiced the fear Matthew had been hiding for all too long. The quiet curled between them, knowing, understanding. They didn't have to say it.

'He wouldn't do it,' Matthew said. 'Alfred. He couldn't destroy a city like that. He's too much the hero type.'

'Alfred wasn't the one who decided our fates at the border,' Francis reminded him gently. Matthew hated thinking of the night with the tanks.

'That was cowardice. Besides, there was no command to attack.'

'That was _bravery_, my dearest.' His voice sharpened. 'I may be familiar with Alfred's sort of heroism. American heroism. But your kind of bravery is yours. I _know_ you, Matthew, and even if they had ordered, you would have held your fire.'

Matthew finally turned back to him and allowed Francis to hold him, listening to the rapid flutter of his heart.

'You shouldn't let me think those things,' he murmured, throat too thick with fear and love to be louder. 'We don't need another trial for me being a pacifist.'

Francis scoffed. 'I say you should let them. They wasted you on tanks and guns.'

He smiled. 'Tell me what you think I should be for.'

Francis curled his hair through his fingers, combing out the knots. Some were stubborn. Matthew knew his hair was completely unkempt. 'Don't tempt me. You'd be a wonderful artist. If you let me, I'd invite you to run into that world of words and breaking ideas with me.'

'Do it,' he challenged. Francis seemed like he would for a moment, but he bit the words back and looked away.

'I should be warning you away from it. You shouldn't have _two_ starving artists in one family. Who'll be able to pay for the food?'

Matthew laughed, disappointment and excitement at the word _family_ warring within him. 'How about after all of this? I could show people the way Canada is supposed to look- up in the wilderness, awed and waiting, aware of how huge everything is, aware of how you are part of it.'

'_Matthew_,' he scolded affectionately. 'How can I resist when you say things like that?' He kissed his cheek, and Matthew grinned. 'Oh, don't smirk at me that way, you know what it does to me. Fine, after this, I'll teach you what I know.'

'Tell me what it does,' Matthew insisted, pushing him back onto the bed and kissing his neck. 'I promise I'm good at learning.'

'You'll be the death of me,' Francis sighed, smiling, and pulled him down to show him.

0o0o0o

He had to return to base eventually. Francis insisted.

Most people had a way of overlooking him to see Alfred instead. It had frustrated Matthew for years, but now more than ever he wished he could take some of the spotlight away from his friend. Alfred never showed up at drill unless it was to fly his bomber, and when it was done he retreated back to his room or out into the city. It was better than Matthew had expected.

He'd expected him thrown out and jailed.

Instead, people treated him like a damaged bird, cautious and soothing, completely and utterly taken with their great ruse that it was Arthur's fault. That was what hurt Alfred more than anything, Matthew could see it. He thought he would have gotten tired of trying to fix Alfred after all this time, but this was different. This wasn't the Alfred he knew.

He knocked on his door and Alfred threw it open, eyes wild, face flushed with drink.

'Mattie?' he asked, the word slurred and soft. Matthew shushed him and handed him a chocolate bar.

'You forgot your ration.'

'I didn't-'

Matthew silenced him with a look, glancing back to make sure the hallway was empty. 'Why don't you open it now?'

Alfred turned it over and tore off the paper stuck to the bottom, devouring the words. He looked up, and for the first time since the trial there was a hint of hope there.

'Arthur,' he whispered. 'This says- this says I can-'

'Not so loud. Yes, it does.'

Alfred lunged for him and embraced him roughly. Matthew winced and tried to push him off, complaining, but secretly he felt better than anything. Alfred thanked him profusely and slammed the door, looking like himself again. Matthew didn't even mind he'd lost his chocolate ration out of it.

Alfred ran down the street later that night, electric and proud again. A weight lifted off his shoulders.

'I'm proud of you.'

Matthew turned to see Francis waiting, smoking by one of the shops, and his heart swelled. He wanted to run to him right then, but resisted. The light in his eyes said he knew exactly what was happening.

'I had to.' It had been harder to arrange it with Jett this time, but it was worth it.

'I'm glad. Arthur has been…' His expression darkened as he looked down at the cheap cigarette, and ground it out. 'I hope he'll be okay. He may be a terrible cook and utterly insufferable, but this isn't something anyone should ever have to go through.'

When Francis began to walk, Matthew was already in step, perfectly synchronized.

'How did you get him the message to him?'

'Slipped it to him in a chocolate bar.' He nudged Francis playfully. 'I lost my ration.'

'Well, we can't have that, can we?' Francis abruptly turned right, leading them down a cramped set of alleys. 'How do you feel about some music tonight? The chocolate is with my compliments. As everything should be.'

'You flirt,' Matthew said, rolling his eyes.

'_Your_ flirt,' Francis corrected, eyes flicking over with a shadow of uncertainty. Matthew had to pull him closer and kiss him in the moonlight, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. He wanted to sink into all of that, the broken pieces and the gentleness.

'And I'm yours.'

'My maple leaf.' Francis reluctantly pulled away and pushed open the doors. Music and lights spilled out and drew them both in.

Matthew was surprised to see so many other uniforms there, but they were the muted French colours instead.

'I've never been down to the French sector before,' he said.

'Welcome to the _Maison du Soldat_ dance floor,' Francis said, mouth at his neck. 'I promise it's better than your American bars, or God forbid, if Alfred has showed you any British places.'

'I'll trust that.' Matthew could hear the babble of voices, rough with the late night and the smoke wreathing through the air.

'Do you want me to order our drinks? My treat, of course.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Matthew said to both, excited at the prospect of impressing Francis. He waved for the bartender and ordered in fluent French.

The man stared at him. Francis stared at him for nearly five seconds before turning and placing the order again in rapid French and steering Matthew to the nearest table.

'Say something again,' he requested, looking uncharacteristically ruffled.

'_Il pleut à boire debout?'_

Francis looked pained. 'Where did you learn French?'

'In Canada. Because I'm Canadian.' Matthew was baffled. 'What's wrong with my French?'

'Your _accent_.' Francis groaned, dropping his head into his hands. 'Will you be angry at me if I call it…'

Matthew could feel himself beginning to smile. 'Go on, Francis. Tell me what's wrong with my accent, _s'il vous plaît_.'

'_Matthew_.'

'_Se calmer le pompon_.'

The bartender passed them their drinks, giving one last glance at Matthew before hurrying away. Matthew was doing his level best not to burst out laughing. He took a long drink to avoid it, hoping he wouldn't spit it out.

'You are very, very lucky you are so attractive,' Francis said. Matthew snorted, barely managing to swallow his drink in time, and then he couldn't stop laughing until his sides ached and he was breathless with tears clumped in his eyelashes, grinning wildly up at Francis. He was flushed, but his drink was untouched.

'I know,' Matthew said shamelessly, beyond surprised at himself. The heat and the music and the relief of a light at the end of the tunnel brought it out of him, but most of all it was Francis, his Francis, his clever hands and the way he kissed like he was born to do it and the wondering art of him. He downed more of his drink, head buzzing.

'Matthew,' he began, hands twisting together.

'I love you,' he interrupted suddenly. 'You know that, right? I hope I didn't interrupt you too much. I'm sorry. But not for loving you.'

Francis shook his head and traced his face adoringly, bringing him closer.

'I was going to ask if I could kiss you.'

'That's good,' Matthew agreed. He was lax already; Francis had to support him when they kissed. Heat jumped along his skin, chasing away the last of his amusement and replacing it with a deep craving.

'Do you want to dance with me?' Francis asked, as close to shy as he'd ever seen.

'Always.'

Francis helped him up. Matthew was aware of his long, lanky body, the muscles that hadn't filled in yet. He was just as aware of Francis, and how beautiful he looked, how he always looked so good. Perfect.

'I don't know if I'll be any good,' he warned him, resting his head on his shoulder as a new song began. He had to bend slightly for it to be comfortable.

'That doesn't matter.' Francis brushed at his hair. 'I just...I want to dance with you.'

'I want to be with you,' Matthew confessed, the words almost lost. He knew Francis heard them. That was all that mattered.

The song was low and soft, the melody so subtle Matthew almost didn't notice. It was a song for closeness and crooning, and that is what Francis did.

'_Blue moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own_…'

They didn't need rules for dancing. It was only them that mattered, in this wide glittering space. Matthew could feel every detail of Francis' hip under his palm, the steady press of poet's hands on the small of his back.

'I love you so much,' Francis said. Matthew leaned up and met him in another kiss.

They danced through the song and the next, always touching no matter the rhythm, until Matthew's head was so pleasantly blurred and heavy, his body warm and prickling, that Francis had to help him back to their seats.

'Oh, Matthew.' He kissed his forehead. 'My dearest.'

They swayed outside to where the moon spilled down silver. Francis looked perfect, the way he had the first night they'd met. But now, Matthew could read the ghosts of pain and love in his expression.

'_Blue_ _moon_,' he repeated, gazing up at the sky. His skin tingled with heat. Francis slipped arms around him, resting his head on his shoulder, his breathing oddly ragged.

'Sometimes it amazes me,' Francis murmured against his neck. 'You. All of you, that you're here at all.'

'I'm glad, too.' Matthew rocked them together, slow and liquid. 'I only wish I'd come here for a different reason.'

'I understand that.' He absentmindedly brushed at his uniform, lingering over his maple leaf pin. 'We can only hope. Perhaps we'll find ourselves here again when everything is better.'

'That sounds nice.' He noticed distantly his words were slurring. 'In a happier time.'

'_With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?'_ Francis quoted with a slight smile. 'I found it in Arthur's book. It's by Oscar Wilde.'

They watched the moon rise and Matthew kissed him, down his neck and to the curve of collarbone and chest.

'You're so beautiful,' he said shakily. Francis wove gentle hands into his hair and steadied his twisting thoughts, whispering it back. The world hummed with quicksilver light and love.

Francis bought him chocolate as they walked home, warm and buzzing. They curled up on a bench in the gardens together- _too close, too obvious_, that snarling fearful part inside Matthew warned, but he couldn't care. Francis broke the bar into careful squares that Matthew arranged into geometric patterns on the wrapper between them, and raised the first to his lips. Matthew smiled and accepted, and returned the favour. The moon shone and he could taste chocolate and feel Francis' fluttering heart and everything was more right than it had been, than anything had ever been.

0o0o0o

In drill, they all moved around the empty space in the ranks where Alfred was. Nobody looked at the silent silver plane.

'Let him be,' one said, somewhere not as far away in the crowd, not even having to say the name. 'He's in a rough spot.'

'Wasn't his fault,' another added. Nobody would look at each other. _Don't ask, don't tell._

They made their separate ways to the tanks and were glad when they didn't have to pretend any longer. When drill was done, Matthew still lay in the tank alone, head lolled back onto the rough canvas seat, breathing in the stale air that tasted of metal. It would taste the same way outside, everything would as long as he was still a soldier. Everything except Francis.

Nobody would remember he was still here. He could stay here, away from the army until morning, dream himself back into Canada. He was just so tired, emotionally and physically.

When he woke again, his breath fogged the air, body damp and stiff like he'd been sleeping in a tent. He stared up at the chute, willing himself to finally shake off the lethargy and move.

Walking down the street was more like a hobble with his muscles seized up. By the time he'd finally worked the pain out of his joints, he was closer to the Wall than he was supposed to be. The West officers glanced over briefly, and one or two nodded. High in the square observation towers, the East guards' guns twisted to face him.

Before he could stop himself, he was walking towards the checkpoint and handing over his military ID. He wanted to be away from the West and the military and everything of that life for a little bit.

Before he crossed through the concrete holding cells he tucked his military jacket inconspicuously under one arm, the maple leaf pin folded behind his collar, and only then could he walk out, head clear and free of thoughts of Alfred and drill, and only the lingering warmth of Francis against his mouth.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Breath wisping white in the cold as the sunrise illuminates it_**


	9. Chapter 9

The people here had eyes like hunted things.

Matthew had thought he could blend in by taking off his military jacket and keeping his head down, but he realized now that you couldn't learn the wary, stubborn look in their eyes in the time it took to cross a concrete border. They could see every glittering fallacy of the West on him, and he could see the harshness of Soviet rule on them. People stared at him as he walked by, but Matthew couldn't make himself meet their gazes. They must hate him, and he didn't blame them.

The Western military was _allowed_ here. It was not welcomed.

Matthew walked through the whispering alleys, weaving past the crumbling fronts of empty shops. Nobody bothered him, nobody so much as spoke to him. Some part of him wanted to turn around and retreat to the West, try to wipe this experience from his knowledge, but it would be futile. He kept moving, eyes drinking in the grey, the guns winking black from towers, the way every Red Army guard turned to him as he passed. The older officers had harsh eyes. Some of the soldiers were younger than he was, younger than Alfred, hands white-knuckled from under worn cuffs, clutching their splintery rifles.

He turned a corner and a guard stepped out in front of him. Matthew stopped dead, adrenaline coursing through him, suddenly and horrifyingly aware he hadn't brought a gun. The man seemed to move in slow motion, sun gleaming across the metal of his rifle dropping to his side, and then the liquid shine of his eyes as he took off his cap. Matthew was still trapped in the haze, trying to understand. The man was really a boy.

'You're a Wessi,' he said in halting English. 'A Westerner. Aren't you?'

Matthew nodded slowly, unsure. The boy's eyes flicked back and forth, glancing down the street. His grip tightened on his patched cap. 'Do you have any food?'

He was sure it would have been considered treason in some way, to help this boy. Alfred never would have done such a thing- at least the Alfred he used to be. He'd changed. Matthew immediately started searching his pockets and came up with half a field ration he'd left from breakfast. He handed it over, his apology for it not being enough- for none of this being enough to justify this boy soldier- caught in his throat. The boy clutched it gratefully, the cellophane making crinkling sounds in his hands. He ducked his head, murmured thanks in an unfamiliar language, and retreated into the shadows of his post, unfolding the ration to eat.

Matthew turned away from him, somehow sick at this quiet happiness, this almost-ritual that gave such sudden and generous goodness to some intolerable unfreeness. He stumbled away, bile in his throat, and washed the bitterness from his mouth and lungs with any drink he could find.

That- that was likely why the officers found him.

Matthew woke to their blazing lights, their heavy hands around his wrists. He could see the healthy flush in their cheeks. The officers certainly ate well enough. That was what made him fight them when he thought fighting for anything in this godforsaken war was beyond him. He tasted the copper from his lip and realized that Francis was right, resistance was terrifying and terrible and as utterly _vital_ as the blood in his teeth. He still lost, laid out on the rough concrete, hurting far more inside than out. He couldn't stop thinking of the boy, of the guns and concrete everywhere. He wanted Francis. He wanted him but it wasn't enough to save them.

One of the officers found his dog tags and barked an order. They wouldn't kill him. It was odd that they wouldn't, or they couldn't. He let his head roll back as he was forced back to his feet and marched to the border again. He wondered how many people were looking at him now, and was only glad that Francis couldn't see him spiraling.

A guard walked him through the checkpoint, blood crusted over his nose and dripping down his uniform, showing all the hungry, haunted marks of the East. He felt like he couldn't breathe in the West anymore.

He could faintly hear his commander and other officers talking, talking at him and over him and to each other until he finally closed his eyes and sank into it all, sank into moonlit dreams and yearned for Francis. They led him back to base and he found himself in front of Alfred's door. He opened, and Matthew drifted as Alfred cleaned the blood off in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, hollow all over the inside. He couldn't look away from the hunted look in his eyes, even as Alfred asked too many questions he couldn't answer. The only one he remembered was as he was drifting off on the couch, still confused and hurting, fighting back the edges of sleep and the nightmares of tanks. That, he thought, that day was the breaking point for him.

'Why did you do it?'

'Couldn't do anything else,' Matthew mumbled, and then sleep slipped over him and took him back to the border a thousand ways.

0o0o0o

Francis heard about the newest incident of volatile Berlin in the whispers first. A Canadian soldier had been harassed by the East guards- came back bloodied, they said, and his eyes were nightmare-wide. Francis' heart hurt already. He knew, in some way, that it was Matthew, who was still too gentle and fragile. He worried and knew the same way, deep down, that this war of will had broken a piece of him.

He loved Matthew. He loved his gentleness, and his quiet humour, and the way he laughed and loved. He loved the person he was away from war, but that person could be broken, was right now being chipped apart piece by piece. There was only so much someone could take of the brutality. Matthew had never wanted to be part of Francis' warring world. He was never supposed to be.

He went empty-handed to the American buildings and simply asked for the Canadian. _My Canadian_, he almost said, and the words slipped through him with painful want. Something about the exhausted need in his voice must have convinced them. The soldiers let him up to the floor, and Francis walked down the hallway, suddenly aware of the sunlight and the creaking of the floors. This was where Matthew had been.

He knocked on the door he'd been instructed, and a door just across the hall creaked open instead. Francis started in shock. He recognized the tousled blond hair, the sky of his eyes.

'Alfred?' he asked. The pilot gave a smile, not quite as cocky as it once would have been.

'That's me. I guess you've heard, huh?' It wasn't really a question. 'Are you looking for Mattie?'

Francis swallowed the sudden emotion in his throat and nodded. Alfred opened the door wider.

They walked down the hallway, and Francis took the time to look at Alfred. All he could see was all the places he differed from Matthew, and the ache in his chest increased.

'He's here,' Alfred whispered, motioning to the couch. 'He's in rough shape. Be gentle with him.' The way he said it demanded compliance, but his tone softened. 'I know you will.'

'Why do you know?' Francis asked, wondering, with a sudden, guilty shiver of hope, if his love was really so obvious. Alfred tilted his head and smiled wider.

'Mattie told me about someone who was everything for him. A long time ago, it feels. The way...the way Artie is for me.' He paused, his stance lightening into something boyish, something that wasn't the pilot of the nuclear bombs. 'Is your name Francis?'

Francis felt some ridiculous laugh bubbling from him. He wanted Matthew more than anything, to touch him and kiss him. 'It is.'

Alfred left them there, and Francis knelt by Matthew. His lip and eye were bruised, but the worst thing was the sudden weight of pain inscribed on his face. It looked like twenty years had settled on him since the night of the tanks. Francis couldn't help a soft, pained sound as he touched him, and Matthew's morning-purple eyes fluttered open, blurrily fixing on his face.

'Francis,' he rasped. Francis wrapped the blankets tighter around him and kissed his hair, wanting to be closer but not daring to with his damage. 'You...you heard?'

'You always seem to be around the worst trouble,' Francis murmured. Matthew laughed tiredly.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. Francis brushed his hair back from his face, noticing with a sick turn of his stomach the cuts on his forehead.

'Don't be sorry,' he said. Matthew would apologize for a war that he had fought against in every second. 'I'm going to put you in a proper bed. Can you stand?'

'Are you taking me home?' Matthew blinked up at him, slowly unfolding himself from the blankets and leaning heavily on Francis' shoulder. He breathed in, breath tickling his neck, words slurring slightly with pain. 'You're home to me.'

Francis couldn't say anything for a second, so utterly lost to him. He kissed him once, lingering.

'I'll be home for you,' he offered. The words made his eyes sting, thinking of some future where they'd have a house together.

Matthew smiled for him, shining like the sun. Francis kissed his hair again, throat thick, and they weaved their way out and into Matthew's room. After he was tucked back into the blankets, Francis paced, head buzzing.

'Francis?' Matthew called. His eyes were slightly more lucid now that he was resting again. Lucid, and older and sadder than they should be. 'Do you want to sit with me?'

Francis did, curling into the bed at his side. His Canadian's chest was warm, and it soaked through him. He hadn't even realized he was shivering. Matthew's fingers, calloused from the wild, carded through his hair.

'What have they done to you?' Francis asked sadly, almost wonderingly. How could he possibly still be so gentle?

_What have they done to you_ was not just about his new bruises. It was about every break he could see across Matthew's love, every piece stolen by a world that didn't deserve him.

'I...I don't know.' Matthew sounded lost, furious, broken in a thousand different ways, voice wavering through rage and sorrow. 'I had to leave, I had to get away for a while. It's because of Alfred's trial, but it's not just that anymore. It's that I could start a war, or that I could hurt so many people, or because I keep having nightmares of the tanks, or because the only thing I know is true in this city is you. I am _tired_, Francis. I'm so tired.'

He nodded, understanding with terrible poignancy everything, every word, and silently opened his arms to him. Matthew crumpled forward into his embrace, gasping, crying, muffling his raging against the pain of this war that was not yet a war into his shirt. Francis held him tight and stared out at the city, whispering not soothing words or denial but simply a broken-hearted chorus of _I know, I know, my dearest, lovely Matthew._

They stayed that way until Matthew's body went slack. Francis kissed his brow and wondered if one day he could weave a crown of poetry and blue moonlight for him.

'Sorry,' he whispered again, voice hoarse. His mouth twitched at the corners.

'Stop apologizing,' Francis said, attempting to be stern. His own voice wavered, and suddenly Matthew was kissing him with a deep, deep hunger, hands tracing over his own scrawled scars, needing something to be true in the perfect way equations always were.

Francis gazed at him in awe, the moonlight dripping across the swaying of his body, the musculature of his arms. He loved him. He loved him beyond compare.

'Can I?' Matthew asked, almost worshipful with his mouth at Francis' shoulder. Francis kissed him again and said _yes, yes,_ let Matthew dance them both into a better space of nothing but blue moonlight and want for beautiful things.

Matthew moved like it was a goodbye, and in some way, Francis knew it would be. He held on, whispering endearments, and Matthew closed his teeth where his shoulder met his neck, leaving a bruise of memory.

'I love you,' Matthew repeated, morning eyes drinking him in. For these glorious moments, they were wide and clear and endless, like the lakes of Canada.

'I love you, _je t'aime, _my dearest Matthew,' Francis said back, and they found each other, over and over until they finally collapsed together. Matthew tucked his head against Francis' shoulder, and they both breathed in.

Some time in the dove grey morning, Francis felt his touch again, skimming his jaw and the bruise on his neck. He couldn't tell if he was still dreaming.

'I'm sorry,' he said, from some place far away, calm and soft and decisive. 'I'm going to take leave soon. You're right, you know. You're right about everything. The army isn't for me.'

Before Francis could think about it, Matthew leaned down and kissed his eyelids, gentle as moonlight.

'Stay with me,' he heard himself say, and Matthew chuckled softly.

'Only for you,' he whispered.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Walking the lengths of echoing galleries_**


	10. Chapter 10

They laid there as the stars and moonlight faded blue. Matthew hummed a slow song, staring up at the ceiling.

'_You knew just what I was there for, you heard me saying a prayer for_…'

Francis rolled over to kiss him, mapping the lines of his shoulders and torso. He had scars, though not as many as him. He paused over his ribs, flattening his hand to feel the steady, reassuring thump of his heart against the palm.

'Are you okay?' he asked. Matthew stopped humming and moved as if to nod before he caught himself.

'As much as I can be.' His hands found Francis' hair, making coils around his fingers. 'There was...there was a boy there, in the East. A Red Army soldier.'

Francis had seen them when he lived in the East. The starving boys with hollow cheeks, eyes dull with the weight of a war and their futures.

'Is that why they caught you?'

Matthew froze, and Francis' stomach twisted. His bruises were still dark and so _much_ of his skin was mottled with them. They had hurt him so badly, broken something inside, and Francis was helpless to do anything but hold him and try to promise it would be okay.

'I think so,' he said, voice wavering. 'I think- I didn't think, Francis, that's it. I had to help him. I have to help but I don't know how.'

'You can't save the entire world,' Francis said gently. 'Saving those you love is enough for now, is it not?'

'Yes. No. I don't know anymore.' Matthew's body was tense and bent as a bowstring, yet the hands weaving braids in his hair were gentle. 'I'm not a hero.'

'You're a hero to me.' Francis kissed one of his bruises. 'Even if you don't see it in yourself. You save me.'

He laughed, soft and wondering, turning his head to wipe away tears. 'You're such an artist. I wish I was, too. I'm so _scared_ of this, Francis, and I wish I wasn't.' He let go of his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath, body shivering beneath him. 'What's wrong with me?'

'Nothing is wrong with you.' Francis shifted to lay beside him and guide his body against his chest, gathering all his hidden strength and gentleness close. The only thing wrong was the world that had broken Matthew this way. He kissed another bruise, careful of the cut just below it. 'This is not your fault.'

Matthew breathed out and his body slackened, the anguish on his face hidden somewhere else, in that deep sorrow he tried to hide so often. 'Tell me something about you,' he said.

Francis wanted to help him, wanted to heal him. He'd willingly take up the fight again, the way he had in the East, if it was for him. He would do anything, seeing those ugly bruises on him. But Matthew needed his own time to heal.

'Like what?'

'Tell me...tell me the night the Wall came up. The night you came to the West.' He shifted, pain flickering momentarily through his shadowed, gentle expression. 'I've heard about it, but I've never talked to someone who was there about it.'

Francis closed his eyes for the memory, bracing himself for the ugly words and the hate and fear and _Gilbert_-

'I told you about Gilbert,' he started hesitantly. Matthew nodded. Francis could barely say his name. His friend, his _best friend_, a filthy traitor, the eagle of their resistance. Staring at him across the Wall, eyes bright as blood. 'He's the reason I'm here, he's…' Gilbert was everything to him and Antonio.

'When did it start between you?' Matthew asked. Francis laughed.

'Far too long ago. A little village in Spain when we were too young to know any better.' He shook it away. 'Him and Antonio and I thought we were invincible here. Bravery is a terrible drug,' he added, knowing all too well how much he drank of it. 'When the Stasi started, it was all too easy to join with others who had too much fire and not enough to love, and we _fought_.'

They had fought and they had raged and thought there was nothing left to lose. It was impossible to think of Gilbert leaving them, impossible as losing sight or a limb or the colour blue. They were _everything_.

'Francis?'

He blinked himself awake. 'Gilbert...is a selfish man. A brilliant, deadly, _selfish_ man. He kept trying to convince Antonio and I that the Soviets would do something, and we didn't listen. So he took it upon himself to find out.'

_Something is going to happen_, Gilbert had insisted, eyes feverish bright, leaning across the table to him. _I'm going to save us, Francis, I'll save everyone. When I find out what happens, I promise you and Antonio and Ludwig will all be safe, and that's enough for me_-

'The price for knowing of the Berlin Wall was the people of the resistance,' he whispered. 'We thought he was dead. I thought he had died chasing his city dreams, and I _expected_ that.' He turned away for a moment, trying to breathe through the sudden choking weight of tears.

'And he wasn't?'

'I wish,' Francis spat, and suddenly shook his head. 'No, I don't mean that. I just wish he was...different. That he hadn't come back in Soviet colours to warn Antonio.'

Francis knew he was lying to himself even now. Gilbert wouldn't have been himself without his wildness and loyalty. Gilbert had saved him. Saving a few people had been enough for him, but it would have never been enough for Francis. It still wasn't. Nothing was enough except Matthew.

'You're right,' he said, gasping through the sudden tears, kissing Matthew's hair. His arms came up to hold him, tracing circles on his back. 'About wanting to save everyone. I understand, I do.'

Matthew leaned up to kiss his hair. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault for all of this.'

'Someday it'll be better. Even Gilbert. He's got to be.' Matthew laid his head against his chest, soft violet eyes so open and unsullied. Francis didn't know if there was any _better_ to Gilbert than this, or if the only things inside of him were war and Prussian blue.

'You're so gentle,' he murmured, amazed as always. Matthew's mouth quirked slightly, sad and lovely.

'That's why we're like this, isn't it? Why I'm going on leave?'

'When are you leaving?' Francis pushed away thoughts of his past. The only thing that mattered right now was his dearest Matthew.

'Soon. They'll let me go quicker than usual. A broken soldier isn't worth much to them.' He gestured to himself, touching the mess of cuts on his face with a weak wince.

'You're not broken.'

Matthew shrugged, shoulders slumping as he looked away. 'I'm a pacifist and love too easily and the idea of a war against those boys who barely have food makes me sick. I'm broken to them.' His eyelashes fluttered. 'I _feel_ broken.'

'You're perfect to me,' Francis said sternly. Matthew blinked up at him and shyly, wonderfully smiled.

'Thank you.' He turned to kiss his shoulder.

'You deserve to hear that every day.' Francis swallowed back a pang of _want_ at the touch of a kiss to his skin. 'You should…you should rest more.'

'It's my last night here, Francis.' He sat up, holding out his arms with a flicker of soft want and humour in his eyes. 'I think I can handle a proper goodbye, if you want that.'

He did, he'd always wanted him so much.

'I do.' He hesitated over his clothes, worried that there would be more bruises.

'It's okay,' Matthew said. 'I meant what I said. I'd rather be yours than the army's. I know you'll be gentle.'

Francis kissed him, properly, lingering and slow. A kiss goodbye.

'You deserved better,' he said softly. He deserved a city of artists better than Francis.

'I have you. That's more than enough.' Matthew guided him down on the bed and they whispered their final goodbyes, learned each other's bodies one last time in the bed under the maple leaf poetry. The end of the moonlight painted the room blue.

Francis had always trusted too easily, but Matthew was something and someone he could always trust. He was _good_ in a way that deserved the world.

'Is this okay?' Matthew asked, pressing soft kisses to his collarbone as he worked him open. Francis nodded, trying to hold onto his shoulders where bruises didn't show. His skin was a patchwork of colour, and he wished, wished it was with paint rather than blood, as all too many things were.

'It's fine,' he assured him. Matthew laughed softly and kissed the wrist hovering by his shoulder.

'You're not going to hurt me. It's okay.' His body arched over him, painted by the dawning lights. 'I trust you so much, Francis.'

'I love you,' he whispered as they finally connected, Matthew's body shuddering softly. He wound fingers in his soft hair, wincing at the blood there. 'I love you so much.'

'I love you too.' Matthew's hands traced his body, warm and shaking and gentle. 'My poet.'

'My maple leaf.' Francis tilted his head up as Matthew kissed his neck, working a pale bruise into the skin. It tingled, and he wanted it, he wished he could take his pain and sadness.

'I'm yours,' Matthew panted against his skin, his movements erratic and devoted. Francis held him closer and promised impossible things that Matthew made him wish for.

'I'll see you again,' he said. 'I promise, I promise. In a better world.'

Matthew met him in a deep kiss, whispering _je t'aime, je t'aime_ until they both finished, shuddering in each other's arms, floating with love, love, love.

It was a while later that they could finally work up the energy and will to extricate themselves from each other and clean off. Francis winced at seeing the line of claw marks on Matthew's shoulders, but he just laughed. All the worry in his face was gone for now. Francis wanted this to be forever, this warmth and gentleness and afterglow.

'I don't mind.' He tucked the blankets closer. 'If you wanted...do you want to see me again?'

'Of course I do!' Francis exclaimed. Matthew blushed, looking delighted.

'Do you want me to visit France with you so you can avoid the moose?' He teased. His sweet and genuine teasing made Francis' heart ache in love.

'That would be nice. I do want to see your home, though. The wilds. Even if there's monsters.'

'I'll protect you, don't worry.' Matthew rolled over to wrapped arms around him and bent so he could set his head on Francis' shoulder. His hair brushed his cheek and Francis could smell his soap and sweat, and wondered how ridiculously wonderful it was that it made him love this even more.

'My dearest,' he breathed. Matthew nuzzled against his collarbone.

'I'll get you the address of my work. I move around a lot,' he apologized. His ears were endearingly pink. 'I've got it written down on a…'

'On a what?'

'You're going to laugh,' he accused warmly. Francis gasped, barely able to contain his smile.

'I would never!'

'Fine.' Matthew kissed his cheek and reached into the nightstand, fumbling for a moment over the jar of cream they'd been using until he came up with a key ring. He unclipped something that looked like a tiny white bear.

'Is that it?' Francis asked delightedly.

'His name is Kuma…' He stopped to turn the bear over and squint. 'Kumajirou. I've had him for years and I still can't remember.' He handed him carefully to Francis, his blush creeping across his face. 'He's from my work, it's printed on the bottom. There's an address. Take good care of him, okay?'

'With my life,' Francis promised. He accepted the tiny bear, stroking a finger over the soft head before going to put him safely in a pocket of his trousers.

'You better,' Matthew warned. 'I expect him back.'

'I'll treat him like royalty.' Francis got back into bed and they laid there trading kisses and promises until the morning spilled in, hot and bright, and Matthew had to go. Francis would never be ready to let him go, but he would be back with him soon, as soon as he could.

Matthew glanced down the hall and then quickly kissed him goodbye.

'I love you so much, Francis Bonnefoy,' he said.

'I love you too, my dearest maple leaf.' Their last kiss was not a goodbye. It was a promise.

He curled a hand around Kumajirou in his pocket. They would be together again, no matter what. He had found Matthew, a diamond in the rough concrete of Berlin, just as the poem he'd written for him had said. _Trouvaille_. They would always find each other again.

0o0o0o

Matthew went to Alfred's room again. One of the commanders had told him about his leave last night, _special circumstances_, catching the next flight out. He needed to talk to his friend before he was gone.

Alfred had always felt like a thunderstorm barely contained, but now it was gone. Matthew sat down, setting the spare key he'd been loaned on the table. He was worried. For a while, Alfred had felt like he was getting better, but _something_ had happened.

'Hey, Alfie.'

Alfred started, looking up, eyes drink-hazed. 'Hey,' he mumbled, trying to focus, the ragged edge of his old smile fighting through. 'You're looking better.'

'I am better.' Matthew sat down. 'What's up?'

'Nothin',' he muttered. He was holding a photograph, and Matthew shuffled closer to see. It was a man, hair ruffled, in front of the Brandenburg Gate. A man who he'd last seen in trial.

'Arthur,' he said.

Alfred's thumb stroked across the surface, eyes faraway. 'That's him. My Arthur.'

If Matthew could only save a few people, he wanted Alfred to be one of them.

'They're sending me home,' he said. 'Wish it was you instead.'

Alfred's mouth twitched. 'Yeah. I've got a bit longer.'

'I want you to know that I appreciate you,' Matthew said. 'I know we've had a lot of differences, but...you're my friend.'

Alfred's expression finally lifted, and he threw his arms around his shoulders. His embraces were crushing as usual, but Matthew let it happen.

'Thanks, Mattie,' he said. 'I appreciate you too. Really.'

'I know.' Matthew finally pushed him off. 'You know my work address. Write if you get into any more trouble.'

Alfred suddenly grabbed for his photo again and showed him the neatly written address on the back, eyes wide and bright. 'I need a favour. I can't write to Arthur directly, I'm not risking us like that. Can you forward him my letters?'

'You're asking me to pay your cross-Atlantic postage?' Matthew asked in mock horror. 'No, I'm kidding, you know that. I'll do it but you're buying all my drinks for a month once you get out, understand?'

His shoulders slumped in relief as he copied the address down. He looked better than he had when Matthew had walked in, but something was still not right.

'Anything else you want to tell me?' he pressed. 'I promise that I'll keep a good secret once I'm five thousand kilometres away.'

Alfred's gaze dropped back to the photograph, his smile fading back. 'You don't know them, but there's…their names are Ludwig and Feliciano.'

'Feliciano Vargas? The artist?'

Alfred sat up. 'Yes. You know him?'

'Francis does. What's going on with them?'

Alfred pressed his lips together, looking pained. 'Feliciano was taken by the Stasi.'

'What? That can't- he was from the West!' Their side of the city no longer felt safe.

'Do you think they cared?' Alfred wrapped his arms around himself. 'Ludwig came to me about it. He'd do anything, anything to save him. And I agreed.'

Matthew set a hand on his arm.

'It wasn't your fault, whatever happened.'

'Yes, it was!' Alfred pulled away and started to pace, his thunderstorm energy suddenly back and twisted around him, frantic and panicked. 'If I hadn't agreed, Ludwig wouldn't have been able to do what he did. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have handed himself over to the East for Feliciano. I don't know why I did it. You didn't see the way Feliciano looked when I saved...when we left.'

'Ludwig gave himself to the East for him?'

'It was a prisoner exchange for his...his Feliciano. The way he talked about him was…' Alfred went still, face buried in the collar of his jacket, shoulders shaking slightly. 'Arthur. He reminded me of Arthur and what he did for me. Sacrifice for love. I hate it. I hate it so much.'

'I understand.'

'I don't want there to be any more of it,' Alfred said. He sat down again, staring out the window. 'That's not what love is.'

Matthew sat closer again. 'Is he still there?'

Alfred nodded once, eyes blank. 'I was supposed to be the hero.'

'You saved Feliciano.'

'That wasn't _saving_ him.' Alfred leaned back and stared up to the ceiling, exhaling slow and ragged. He abruptly forced a smile. 'It's fine, it's already done. I shouldn't have told you all of that right before you left. Should be a celebration, huh?'

'Alfred,' Matthew said helplessly.

'Come on,' his friend said, taking his arm. His eyes were glassy. 'I know a good place. It's called the Cuckoo's Egg.'

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Driving along long city roads on quiet nights_**


	11. Chapter 11

Alfred ordered himself beer. Matthew didn't ask why he hadn't taken the bourbon.

'I'm really gonna miss you,' Alfred said with the slightest hint of his old smile. 'You're the only other person here who _understands_. I've still got a year in this job, threatening innocent people- God, it _sickens_ me. Wish I could openly be a pacifist like you, but they'd ruin my record and call me a Soviet sympathizer and I am _not_ a Soviet sympathizer.'

'You're not a pacifist either.'

'I'm _reasonable_ with aggression,' Alfred insisted, pointing at him, eyes wide with conviction. Matthew decided not to comment on that.

'I do understand, though. It was hard enough having to go to the border that one night, and I'm not even the one who would be fired on.'

Alfred clinked their glasses together. 'To getting out of this damn job.'

'To getting out of this damn-' Matthew gestured to themselves and their uniforms and the grey hopelessness just across the Wall. Alfred's eyes hardened, and he threw back the rest of his beer.

'Last day in Berlin,' he said, electric fervour sparking in his eyes again, standing up and ruffling his bomber jacket. 'Come on, let's enjoy it. And take off your uniform jacket, I don't want to be a soldier for a second more than I have to.'

They wove into a new, burning tapestry in the streets, brushing shoulders, drinking and slipping through the clubs. Berlin was a city of vitality, not elegance, but there was beauty in the twisting bodies of dance and worship. Matthew bought them both beers and Alfred leaned against his shoulder at the end of their night, watching the stars and moon.

'I've been lookin' for poetry,' Alfred declared loudly, staggering forward, hooking an arm around a lamppost to twirl in a drunken circle. He slowed to a stop and promptly pointed a swaying finger at in horror. 'Oh, _God_, Mattie, is that gonna fall on me?'

Matthew was starting to wonder if they should have done that last drinking contest, but it was too late now. 'It'll be fine.' He groped around for the nearest bench. 'Come sit down.'

'I'm not tired,' Alfred argued, flopping down. Matthew had to squint to see properly through the blur of _winning_ that drinking contest, and he'd remind Alfred of that if his tongue didn't feel very disconnected from his face.

'You're never tired.'

'It's 'cause I'm a hero.'

Matthew dragged more words out of his pleasantly hazy head. 'Why are you looking for poetry?'

'Because Arthur said he used to have a book of it. Annotated all of Keats' poems and everythin', but he sold it. Or maybe I can buy him music.'

'Francis likes music.'

Alfred nodded seriously. 'Music is real important. I wanna get good music for when I go stargazing again.' He reached up, hands splaying against them. 'They're better in the countryside. Mattie, can you believe Artie's never been to the countryside? I'm gonna take him there one day, and everything is gonna be _okay_ once I can do that.'

Matthew stroked his hair. Even Alfred's sun-bronze skin was pearly grey under the wash of moonlight. It made everything look rainwater-soft. He felt half-asleep and wonderfully peaceful.

'Everythin's gonna be okay,' Alfred slurred, eyes fixed on the constellations. 'I'll be with Artie soon, and then I can fix this whole war, I'll be the _hero_.' His face suddenly lit up, finally looking like the electric, brash pilot he was before the trial. Like Matthew's friend. 'Mattie! I know what I'm gonna do after I'm out, 'cause I'm _never_ coming back to this job. 'M gonna be an _astronaut!_ And Artie's gonna be a writer so he can write all about me going to space, and-'

He kept babbling on, looking peaceful and happy, his accent thickening with sleep and joy.

'That's right,' Matthew soothed, coaxing him back down. Alfred quieted and sighed, deep and satisfied, eyes sliding shut, and then his head dropped onto Matthew's shoulder with a snore.

If Matthew closed his eyes too, he could imagine the moon's silvery sheen sparkling across his skin like Francis' touch, gentle and full of deep, thrumming energy. The gardens stretched around them, green and tranquil and moon-soaked, and he felt present, grounded for a moment, the moon a silk cord tying him to Francis, an anchor to hold onto in this shifting world. Here, everything was peaceful, everything could be _okay_ with the world for a moment.

Alfred talked in his sleep, murmuring happy nonsense, and Matthew stayed on the bench for a long time, savouring the moon and Berlin. Alfred had promised him a good, carefree final night in this city of art and war, and he'd delivered.

Finally, Matthew carried him back to base, took off his bomber jacket, and settled him in bed. He sat there for a moment, looking at his friend. His wildly brave, unapologetic, thunderstorm of a friend, who he'd never really known how to feel about. For now, he loved him entirely for his goodness, his conviction to take the world into his own hands and do his best for it.

'I think you're a really good hero, Alfie,' he whispered, tucked the blankets further up around him, got a glass of water for Alfred's inevitable hangover once he woke up, and left him to rest.

He laid half-awake and dreaming of the future in bed, whispering the lyrics of a song to himself. He'd show Francis his work, the perfect curves of equations, the awed looks of students' faces when they finally understood. He'd show him Canada once all of this was done and safer, the lakes and snow-capped mountains and they could go hiking and watch the birds migrate and be happy and free and safe together.

He woke up with tears on his cheeks and a smile on his face. He cleaned up the few things he wanted to keep, slowly packed away his math textbooks and his precious maple leaf poem, and waited for the commanders to come. They silently led him away, and he tilted his face to the sun and breathed in.

As the plane rose, he watched Berlin fold away beneath him. This was what Alfred would have seen, before the button was pressed. From here, he couldn't see the people or the details of art, only the split heart and the glow of the lights, glimmering in a bluegold split between the halves of the Wall. From up here, everything was different, but he still wondered if Francis was watching the moon and thinking of him.

0o0o0o

Matthew was dropped off in London. The next plane would be a day later, they told him. None of the higher ranks seemed able to look him in the eye, and it gave Matthew a slight sense of satisfaction to be so _wrong_ in their eyes that they barely dared to meet his gaze.

London was a different city from Berlin. Matthew had grown used to the bloody, harsh, slick gratification of a city torn to the pieces by its wars. London was lacerated with its own scars, burned and gashed with a war that had left marks in the very soil, but the streets here didn't roar and roil and riot. There was no defiant, grinning wildness sliding like dark blood through the streets, born from people who didn't know if they'd see the next week through. Most importantly, as far as Matthew knew there was no _London Wall_.

He strolled the streets, mildly amazed that if he chose he could walk from one end of the city to the other without crossing into a land of boy soldiers and grey fear. He wandered through different shops. One shop, selling books, caught his eye. Perhaps he could find a poetry book for Alfred there.

He walked in and the bell jingled. Matthew discreetly removed his uniform jacket again. He didn't want to wear it if he didn't need to protect himself from the drizzle outside. His hair was a mess, too, dark and straight with rain. He heard someone come through the back, and raked his hair out of his face to see better.

'What are you looking for toda-' The shopkeeper cut off with a gasp, rushing forward, and Matthew stumbled back in shock.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other, the man's green eyes wide with shock and pain.

'Arthur?' Matthew asked, stunned. Arthur carefully stepped back, brows furrowing,the pain etching deeper in his face.

'You look like him,' he said, hands shaking slightly. He clenched them into fists. 'I didn't think.'

Matthew didn't know what to say. Any apology felt too weak. They stood quietly, tangled up around the shadow of a pilot as the rain grew heavier on the windows.

'Did they throw you out too?' Arthur finally said, far too light. He turned to re-adjust a book stand that wasn't crooked. 'I thought I would have been a good enough example of what not to do.'

'You didn't do anything wrong.'

'I love an American. A _brilliant_, wonderful American, and he taught me how to love things so much that you'd take anything for them. It wasn't his fault.' He eyed Matthew again. 'So did they find you out as well?'

'I'm damaged goods to them,' Matthew said dryly. 'A pacifist.'

'Well, that's nearly as bad.' Arthur looked him up and down, a hint of amusement on his face. 'You did well.'

'Can I stay here for a while?' Matthew asked quietly, looking out the window, streaked by pounding rain. 'I'm supposed to fly back home soon.'

Arthur flipped the sign on the door to _Closed_ and invited Matthew into the back. The bookshop was cozy and warm, and smelled like old paper and wax. A safe smell.

'What were you looking for?' Arthur asked, busting himself with making tea.

'A poetry book. Alfred wanted one.' Matthew shifted on his feet. 'Actually, it was so he could send it to you, but I guess I could cut out the extra shipping costs and hand it over to you now.'

Arthur paused in pouring tea and closed his eyes. 'He's such an idiot,' he said softly.

'He wants to become an astronaut after he gets out of this.' Matthew accepted the tea and stared into the depths. His throat was thick. 'I wish he'd been one all along.'

Arthur sat down across from him, stirring his own cup.

'He deserves better,' he agreed. Matthew missed his friend and he missed Francis even more now, running fingers through the messy damp curls of his hair, heart aching more at the muscle memory of his hands cupping Francis' cheek. He wished he was with him.

'Is this where you worked before all of it?' he asked, gesturing around. 'I'm going back to teaching after this. They didn't expect me back so soon, but…'

'No. Even if it was, it wouldn't have taken me back. My older sister runs a few shops, she let me work in this one.' He laughed dryly. 'My record is rather incriminating.'

Matthew knew that legally, his own record showed shell shock. The doctors had spoken about it and Matthew had stared at them without being able to understand. He was shocked by the inability of everyone to help, at the nuclear bombs, at how many good things could be ruined, not at any specific conflict borne with bruises and blood.

'I have someone too,' he admitted. 'He helped me realize that job was...it was killing me.'

Arthur nodded in understanding. 'I'm glad you two didn't end up like us.'

The admittance had sharpened the pain and awareness of how much he'd changed and lost, melancholy acknowledgement of the endless fight to scrape together something gentle in this world. Matthew rummaged in his pockets for the emergency bottle of maple syrup he'd bought earlier that day. He'd intended to make some pancakes later on, good comfort food, but the pain of missing Francis made him want something familiar now. He poured some into his cup, stirred and drank.

He looked up to see Arthur looking completely horrified. Matthew immediately realized his mistake.

'Sorry, I should have offered.' He held out the bottle. 'Do you want any? It's not the best, but at least it's not butter flavoured.'

'No thank you,' Arthur said faintly. He eyed Matthew's tea with great apprehension before dragging his eyes up. 'The man you're with. Is he still there?'

Matthew added some more syrup and drank, warmed by the sweetness and the open acknowledgement that they were allowed in the back room of this bookshop to call Francis his. 'He's not military. He's the artist type, actually.'

'If he's not military in Berlin, he must be the other kind,' Arthur said absentmindedly, stirring his cup. 'What's his name?'

Matthew savoured the moment before confession for a moment. 'He's Francis Bonnefoy, the poet.'

Arthur dropped his spoon and made the same face he had when Matthew put the syrup in his tea.

'_Francis?_' he asked.

'You know him?'

'Unfortunately. He's who I lost that damn bet to and had to sell that poetry book for.' Arthur grimaced. 'Alfred mentioned you didn't have the best taste, but…'

'Alfred only said that because I put a little bit of syrup on his burger once,' Matthew defended. He decided not to repeat what Francis had said about Arthur. 'I heard you used to drink together.'

Arthur sighed. 'We did. Different times. He was an arrogant bastard, but I suppose he was a very solid partner.' He glanced up. 'Are you...happy with him?'

He had been happier than he'd ever been, and known more love and loss and want than he'd ever known before. Francis had changed him so much.

'I am,' he confirmed confidently.

Arthur sighed and went back to stirring his tea with a slight smile. 'Well, I wish you the best.'

They finished their tea and Arthur gave him the one book in the store with Apollinaire's poems. He said he didn't want it anyways, it being French. Matthew put his jacket back on, smoothing himself back into the shell of a perfect soldier for the flight back home.

'In my opinion, you're one of the better soldiers this whole thing has made,' he said, pausing to fix Matthew's jacket, eyes lingering on the American signs there. 'I'm glad you're somewhat better off now. Alfred said you were- it's Canadian, isn't it? I've heard it's beautiful there.'

'It is. When Alfred is out, we'll see each other again,' Matthew promised. 'The stars are unbelievable up there. I've got a cabin Alfred borrows from me every year, if you're ever interested.'

Arthur looked happy, nearly peaceful, eyes bright with pride. 'Once this whole damn thing is done.'

Matthew walked out into the rain and tilted his head back before he went back to base, body full of pooled moonlight and poetry and silk.

The flight home wasn't like he'd dreamed it would be for months. Canada was still where his heart was, but his dream had changed from a quiet existence in the wilds like he'd had before. This flight was supposed to be with a happy Alfred at his side and Francis to show the whole world to.

They'd have that one day. Matthew traced fingers over the lines of the poems in the book, the face of a woman with a broad sunhat, and dreamed about how he'd trace the same shapes of Francis' skin and whisper him a different kind of poetry.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Singing love songs to someone you wish wasn't a stranger_**


	12. Chapter 12

Life in Berlin had changed forever the night that Matthew Williams walked into his life, on that moonlit street. Francis loved his tentative humour, and the flashes of his clever tongue, and the deep love in his beautiful eyes. Without him, the streets shone different, the moon not quite as deep blue, the whole glitter and glimmer of West Berlin not as rainwater-soft. Francis stood in the doorway of the art studio and lit a cigarette that didn't taste right when Matthew wasn't beside him. The city felt like it was growing around the weight of the Wall, slowly, slowly, a fern uncurling after the rain. And still, the shade of the trial in the dark twisted claws of the army hung over him.

He ashed out the tasteless cigarette, aching for the touch of calloused hands and pale soft hair, and went back inside, waving down a young woman nearby.

'Where's Feliciano?' he asked. She flinched for a moment, and something heavy as dread sank into his stomach.

'Nobody knows,' she said, lips pressed together. Her voice shook slightly as she met his eyes. 'People say he was taken by the...the East has him.'

Francis stood there in cold shock, feeling sick. She dipped her head slightly and left him there, clutching the doorframe, as the first raindrops hissed down on the streets.

He found Feliciano's flat abandoned, hollow and left with his last touches on it. The portrait of his soldier, or Ludwig as kind and alight as Francis had ever seen, still stood on the stand, crooked from where he could see it through the window.

'Francis?'

He spun, hand jumping to his hip and the pistol he'd long ago thrown in the river. Soldiers died before their habits did. He didn't recognize Alfred for a moment, this boy who'd lost everything. His bravado and brash pride and sunshine smile were all gone, leaving him with wide eyes and shoulders that hunched in his bomber jacket. He looked like Matthew after that horrible night in the East, and Francis felt worse.

'Alfred,' he said slowly, swallowing back his own pain. Alfred had been through hell. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothin',' he said, tipping his head a little, face too raw with pain. His expression suddenly contorted. 'No. No, _everything_ is wrong, I feel like I've done everything wrong. First Arthur, now Ludwig- people keep dying and it's _always_ my fault.'

'Alfred!' Francis crossed to him, helpless to know what to say, or how to fix the croon of fear and loathing in his voice. He looked so much like Matthew. 'This wasn't your fault.'

'Was it?' He had startling eyes, summer sky blue, drink-blurred. 'If I wasn't here, in this _hell_ of a job, two people wouldn't be in prison or five hundred miles away.'

'Ludwig?' Francis asked. 'He's in prison?'

Alfred laughed, a little wild. 'Yeah. He is. Come on,' he added, nodding to the gaudy streets downtown. 'I need another drink. I'll tell you there.'

Alfred led him to a bar called the Cuckoo's Egg. He ordered a beer and stared at the art on the can for a long time, brows furrowed, before he drank.

'What do you know about prisoner exchanges?' he said, raising his blurry eyes from the drink, voice echoing something else, _someone_ else.

'Who did you-' Francis stopped dead, the sudden choking truth building in his throat, all the pieces falling together. He knew what Ludwig had done, Gilbert's brother, that soldier born of devotion and not much more. 'Feliciano. Oh, God, it was Feliciano.'

Alfred nodded, finger tracking dewdrops across the sides of the can. 'I wish- I _wish_ I'd never helped with that plan of his. But I couldn't not help, Francis. You get it, don't you?' His voice lifted, heartbreakingly hopeful and lonely, longing for connection. 'He's like me. He's like us. If it was Arthur there, God, I'd be lined up outside Checkpoint Charlie with handcuffs on the second I knew. I can't blame him.'

'I get it,' Francis agreed softly. Alfred stared into his empty can and turned to order another, and he touched his hand, shaking his head. Alfred looked at him in shock for a moment, before he smiled, something more real.

'You get it,' he agreed, and put down his hand. Francis stood up and led him out, back into the moonlight. Beside him, Alfred drank in the cold night sky before pointing up with a wavering finger, sketching the shapes.

'That's Orion up there. You know, I wanted to send Artie a book on constellations,' he said. His smile was a little more honest now, brighter in the starlight. 'Can you believe he's never been to the countryside?'

Alfred insisted on writing some letter to mail to Arthur, and Francis sat with him in the garden as he did. Alfred told him that Feliciano was in the West again, but apparently staying with someone else. Ludwig was in some prison in the East, which made Francis taste blood. Gilbert had sworn to him that _everything_ was to keep his baby brother from the East. Betraying the resistance, becoming a filthy turncoat, abandoning them, all for nothing. Francis would have found it funny if it wasn't other people paying for Gilbert's mistakes, over and over and over again. Alfred's hands shook when he mailed the letter, open with heartbreak and love.

Francis walked him back to his base, keeping him on track as Alfred gazed up at the constellations, weaving along the roads.

'If you need something to do, come to my art studio,' Francis offered. Alfred looked more lucid after their walk, but he wasn't right. Still, he looked more peaceful, and his grin shone through for a moment.

'The place with the Thunderbird? Yeah, I know it.' He straightened his uniform and looked up at the looming apartment of barracks. 'Hey, Francis. Thanks a lot. I'm glad Mattie has someone like you.'

Francis swallowed. 'I tried my best for him. He deserves it. He deserves everything.'

Alfred's smile widened. 'Yeah, you get it.'

Francis watched him walk into the jaws of the army again and then turned to go back to the studio, the only place where anything felt right. He fell asleep in a pool of moonlight and dreamed of Matthew and freedom, dreaming that he would be free from this not-yet-war. He couldn't leave, not yet, not while Gilbert still walked free, even though he ached for his gentle Canadian. Everything, everything seemed to centre on the East and that pale and oversaturated ghost of wartime, his hands dripping as red as his eyes.

0o0o0o

Gilbert had called him a coward for refusing to fight, years ago when the resistance was just blooming in the postwar city, the rubble still smoking. It was when Gilbert was broken and angry, more so than he was now, and full of so much raw loss and pain that Francis could barely touch him without bleeding on bared teeth and broken edges. He understood, he did, this hurt and fearful boy trying to raise his brother all alone in a city built for war. Gilbert Beilschmidt was less an eagle than a wild comet, heedless of danger, focused entirely on hurting those that had hurt him.

_I am not going to kill myself for your mistakes_, Francis had spat when Gilbert tried to sweet-talk him into helping with a fight with the last remnants of the brownshirts, _Francis I just got into a little bit of trouble!_

He hated the old regime as much as Gilbert, but he knew how to live and fight another day. To his friend, there was no such thing as _tomorrow_, no such thing as living past the breath you were taking right then.

He remembered that as he stared at the Wall, bright with graffiti, bristling with guns. He traced his fingertips across the lines of a flower painted across the grey, brushing away a dusting of snow, and saw the dark-bright barrel of a gun in the guard tower twist towards him. He met the impenetrable gaze, Gilbert's reckless, heedless fury building in his chest for Feliciano and Ludwig and Alfred, for _Matthew_.

The gun spun back towards the East, trained on the innocents, _like shooting fish in a barrel_. Francis had looked death in the eye and wished they were still staring each other down. His mouth tasted like bile no matter what he drank.

He wandered the length of the Wall, tracing the bright swirls of graffiti, feet crunching through the top layer of snow. The art dulled the pain of losing Matthew and the constant hurt of being helpless, of being unable to help. He felt like a coward for surviving that bloody night of the Wall. His safety was painted with the blood of the rest of the resistance.

The Berlin Wall stretched up, impenetrable and solid, twelve feet high and studded with the guard towers. He wondered if Gilbert was there, watching him walk the border, and what he thought about surviving and saving and cowardice after all of this.

He ended up by the checkpoint, watching the few cars that were allowed to pass. He didn't know why he did, or why he walked there the next day, wrapped in the same heavy coat, watching the slow motion of the gate and the sign that proclaimed _You are now leaving the American sector_. He felt hollow. Everything was grey and he was helpless to do anything about it.

'Hey!' someone shouted at him from the checkpoint, and he stepped back, tongue heavy, void of excuses.

The guard stormed closer, holding his baton awkwardly. Francis looked up and caught the man's eyes, dark olive. He looked slightly too young to be a border guard.

'You should get out of here,' he said, jutting his jaw. Francis was distracted for a moment by the thoroughly odd manner the guard held himself, full of posturing. It didn't seem to be in a cruel way, just a habit.

When he finally realized the instruction, the man was frowning at him. Francis stepped back, pulling down his scarf.

'I'll be going,' he said, moving back. The young man's eyes widened for a second.

'I have a message for Jean.' he said abruptly. The mention of his old life, his resistance name, hit him like a cold shock, making him start and his hands curl into fists. Francis hesitated. This boy didn't seem dangerous, but he usually knew better than to give his codename at the slightest suggestion. Names meant infamy.

'Do you have a message for him?' he returned. The man nodded.

'Someone in the East wants to talk to him.' He looked him up and down. 'Kalmar has a message.'

He didn't know why Mathias was looking for him again, months later, but God, what was left now after everything?

'Tell him...tell him that Jean is listening,' he said tiredly, closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the life he'd promised he'd left. He'd been peaceful with Matthew, but now that he was gone, Francis had to take up the fight again for hope of seeing that peace once more.

The young man pressed a crumpled envelope into his hands, nodding once, and then stepped back. His eyes gleamed with hope.

'You should go,' he said, adjusting his ill-fitting jacket. 'I should, too. Good luck.'

Francis watched him hurry back to the post and then turned and trudged back home. His head hurt and his hands were clumsy with cold, but he finally closed the door and slumped down on the table to hold Mathias' letter, thoughts whirling.

Why had he gone to the effort of sending a letter to the East, with a guard messenger? Why did he want to recruit Francis again? He was a coward. Gilbert had been right about that, at least. He was safe in the West, and he would be worse than useless in the fight against the Stasi. He should throw the letter away right now, and forget all over again the life of being Jean to the resistance.

He slid his thumb under the tape seal and slowly ripped it open. A piece of paper fell into his hands, clumsily folded. He unfolded it. It was short, only a few words down the middle of the paper in Mathias' scribble, and a crudely drawn map of Berlin, with a star marking a location in the backstreets of the West, near the Wall.

_Our eagle is back with us, Jean._

_9 PM Saturday. We'll forget about the past for now- we already have for Eagle._

He dropped the paper and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter or terror or tears or all three. Gilbert was back with the resistance, and that meant for better or worse that everything impossible was possible again, and hat they were all under his broken pale eagle's talons even now. Things didn't change for them, in Berlin.

What was stopping him from falling back into his old life now? His dearest Matthew was gone, his old drinking partner Arthur was gone, and he was desperate to make something in this broken city better, even if it was just himself. He was sure the resistance would forgive that small selfishness. They'd already forgiven Gilbert.

**0o0o0o**

_**:: Mineral crystals that look like they've been carved**_


	13. Chapter 13

Francis wished he was brave enough to burn the map, cut the resistance out of his future like he had his past. Gilbert had always been able to do that so _easily_, to cauterize wounds that Francis would keep nursing for years.

Freedom. That's what the West had promised him. That's what he had received, running from the East that night. The freedom of art and the future, the freedom to learn Matthew, all his humour and wonder. Freedom from the resistance. Francis had become his own man, or so he'd pretended. He'd always been someone else's, and Matthew had been the sweetest.

He folded the paper over in his hands again, as if hiding the message and the map would hide the fact that he was falling right back into Gilbert's bloody thrall all over again. If Mathias was reaching out to them both, it was something more dangerous than ever.

He thought of Antonio, his tanned warm hands and the quiet darkness in his eyes. He was still loyal to the cause. Francis would see him again. The idea of it twisted his chest into sharp pains, and he tried not to think of it anymore. Him, and Antonio, and Gilbert, all together again.

He folded the letter up again, trying to preserve the last traces of creasing. He'd already handled it so much it was tending to flatten out, but he pressed on the folds hard and slid it beneath his paint set. He didn't want to see it again.

There had never been a question about going. Gilbert's hold on him still ran blood-deep. He had to go, to try to fix something of this shattered city. For Ludwig, or Feliciano, or _Matthew_. Whatever had happened, he had a feeling it would be his last run with the Berlin resistance, and why not go out with fanfare?

No, there was no such thing as invincible in Berlin, but the Americans thought they were and that would be enough. Francis strode over to the phone and dialed the military base number. As the tone rang, he leaned his forehead against the cool wall, trying to breathe. His chest had gone tight.

The man who answered sounded young and exhausted, mumbling into the receiver.

'American Air Force, stationed in Berlin. Who are you trying to reach?'

Francis closed his eyes. If this went wrong, it would not be only him who died for it.

'I need to speak to Alfred F. Jones.'

'Jones?' The young man made a sympathetic sound. 'Yeah, I know him. Everyone does. I'll go get him.'

Francis waited until the phone clattered again.

'American Air Force speaking?' the staticky voice yawned.

'Alfred. Is that you?'

There was a sudden silence. When Alfred spoke again, his voice was quiet and tense. 'It's me. What do you need me for? Other people want to use the phone soon. Military phone and all.'

The subtle emphasis on _military _made him grimace. He wouldn't put it beyond the army to spy on their own soldiers, especially one like Alfred. He glanced over at his gallery, thinking of what to say.

'I need you to come pick up that painting I did for you immediately. I need to put another project up.'

'Right.'

'Be here immediately after your drill,' Francis instructed. He didn't wait for Alfred's answer, instead slamming the phone back into the cradle. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He knew Alfred would agree. He would because he had never questioned his own bravery, because he starved for heroism and devotion like artists did for beauty. He would agree, and so Francis had set the fuse on something he feared might light this gunpowder city aflame. Whatever was happening with the resistance, the Americans were involved now, and they would win. Francis prayed the only thing that would be won would be a scuffle in the backstreets of Berlin, and that this would not be the spark of another war.

He stumbled back to bed, lying half-awake, paralyzed with nightmares and cold sweats, wondering if he would be remembered in the years to come as the man who sparked the Third World War. They would win, come morning, but at what price?

0o0o0o

When he heard the knocking, he jerked open the door, squinting into the wintry sunlight and motioning for Alfred to sit at the table. There he was, their own nuclear warhead, their secret weapon. A nineteen year old pilot with sky blue eyes and a broken heart, young face still carved deep with loss, body curled tight with kinetic energy. Francis lingered for a moment in that time, the last moment he had before he would change everything. It was a heady feeling, the power of knowing others would do what you wanted. He could get drunk on it. He knew Gilbert had.

'Swear that you will not repeat what I tell you to anyone.'

'What is it?'

'Promise,' Francis ordered. Alfred jerked back, body knotting tighter. His eyes were panicked and blank for a heartbeat before his body suddenly went slack in the chair.

'I promise,' he murmured. His eyes seemed to be staring into a different time.

Francis sat down at the chair across from him, breathed in, and spoke.

'There was a resistance in the East. There is, still. I was once part of it.'

'Why aren't you now?'

The question made him taste blood for a moment, so suddenly furious at himself, but he pushed it down. He had been angry for a long, long time. He could control himself a few days more. Better to be angry at the Stasi than himself. 'Because I was given the chance to leave, at the price of others' lives, and I took it.'

Alfred looked like he was struggling with a new question. 'Why?'

'I don't know,' Francis lied through his teeth. The sharp difference between his and Alfred's heroism ached. 'I survived. Other people paid the price for it. Isn't that always how it works?'

Alfred's body tensed, eyes staring into memory again. 'It is.'

'I want to repay that now. My resistance has contacted me. They would not do that if it wasn't serious.' Francis stood to pace again, unable to look at him. 'You are- you would be a powerful asset.'

Silence. Francis was nearly horrified at himself, talking about how Alfred was an _asset_, just their powerful weapon, the way he'd been thinking of the young man. He turned to apologize.

'What is it?' Alfred asked softly. He burned with some strange new energy, every trace of the lethargy gone, eyes blazing bright. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Alfred?' Francis fumbled for words. 'What do you mean?'

'I'll help,' he said simply. His hands were curled into fists, body swaying slightly with emotion. 'I need to help. I need to do _something_.'

'It will be dangerous, I don't want to force you…' Francis trailed off. Alfred wasn't listening. The burn of his eyes and the sudden crooked tilt of his grimacing smile made Francis' chest feel tight again. He reminded him of Gilbert, the way he had been before everything changed. Their secret weapon, driven by a wild energy none of them knew how to tap into.

Alfred walked closer to him and Francis fought the urge to shudder at the pain and delight in his eyes. Gilbert had always looked the same way.

'What do you need me to do?' he asked. Francis pulled out the letter with shaking hands and showed him the map, told him when to be there, and watched as Alfred left, face tilted up to the sky. He heard him crow to himself with exultation at the end of the street, and wondered if he'd made a mistake.

Alfred, ace pilot, golden boy, who'd lost so much and hurt so deeply that he grabbed at the chance to fix it with both hands and bared teeth, so desperate to make something in this wrong world right again. Francis sank down into his hands at the table and knew he was the same way.

He turned his mirror to face the wall that night. He didn't want to see if he had that wild pained energy in him now as well.

0o0o0o

Francis dressed slowly the morning of the meeting. His long coat, good gloves, his second best shirt, dress pants. It was silly and simple, but it comforted him. It was something that was still right and warm in this cold world.

Alfred greeted him at the corner. Apart from the shadows beneath his eyes and the glitter of his eyes, the energy was dormant again. He wasn't wearing most of his uniform, thankfully. This whole plan was a death sentence for all of them, but Francis didn't want to die sooner than he had to by walking the uniformed American ace to the meeting. There was only one problem.

'This is supposed to be covert, Alfred. You can't wear your bomber jacket.'

Alfred's hand jumped to the pocket over his heart, brows furrowing. 'I need it.'

Francis pressed his lips together. 'You're already conspicuous, _Alfred F. Jones_,' he said pointedly.

Alfred took the jacket off and folded it under his arm. He would always stand out. He moved like he was bursting with pure kinetic energy, nothing like how Matthew had been. And yet there was still a chord of similarity in the young-bird way they both held themselves. Francis swallowed back memory and began to walk.

'When we get there, do not speak to anyone. _Never_ reveal your real name. If they want to lead us anywhere, don't follow when I go.'

'I can be careful,' Alfred assured him. He offered a slight smile when Francis glanced over, and he was suddenly aware of the weight and experience on his young shoulders.

'I know you will be,' he said, suddenly ashamed again of how he'd been thinking of Alfred. He'd been through hell and come out burning brighter. 'I trust you.'

They walked and Alfred whistled. The whole thing was so absurd that he felt like laughing and singing along. The day was warm and bright blue, and he was walking with the American ace to discuss with a resistance. He was a dead man walking, and the path to the gallows was rather cheerful.

When they turned the corner, there was a man leaning against the wall. Alfred fell silent. When Francis leaned casually against the bricks and lit a cigarette, the man glanced up from the high collar of his long coat. He recognized him from raids long ago.

'Jean.'

Francis nodded. The man's eyes slid toward Alfred, who was glancing down the street, listening in. 'Who's that?'

Francis felt that absurd laughter rise again. 'He's American Army.'

The man froze. His cigarette, fallen from his open mouth, smouldered on the pavement. And suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the buildings, sounding like the cawing of crows, magnified in the quiet.

'What a way to come back, Jean,' he whispered. 'We've got our own nuclear warhead now.'

Francis felt a bitter smile pull at his mouth. That was what Alfred would always be, to the commanders of armies, to the Stasi. The spark of nuclear war.

He'd lain awake thinking of it, of how foolhardy he must be to bring the pilot into the split heart of the East itself, lightning in the stuttering pulse of Berlin. If the mission failed and they were caught, it would be war.

'I'll tell Kalmar about him. He'll enjoy it. This will be our last mission, after all, and what a way to go out.' He jerked his head at Alfred. 'Bring your soldier in, he deserves to know how we'll die.'

Francis frowned, motioning Alfred closer. 'How do you know that?'

'We're raiding the Stasi prison,' he said simply.

Francis staggered. The idea was more than impossible. It would fail, and everyone else would pay the price for it.

'Why?'

The man turned away, his swaying posture slumping. 'Gilbert's brother. We're going to save him and everyone else. Aim to blow the place sky-high and die trying.'

Alfred leaned forward, face alight with wild desperation, and Francis realized with a jolt, Ludwig. 'We can save people,' he said. Not a question, but a demand.

The man regarded him soberly. 'If you die at the hands of the Stasi, do you understand what the West will do in revenge?'

'I won't die,' Alfred said, lifting his head. He sounded so sure of himself, voice resonant against the buildings, that Francis even believed it for a moment. The man kept his eyes on Alfred when he spoke.

'We'll be back tomorrow to bring you home, Jean. If you're smart, you won't come.' He pressed an envelope into his hands and walked away with hunched shoulders.

The walk back to what should have been life was silent. Francis could say nothing. Alfred stared up to the blue sky as they followed the streets back of the gallery. He looked peaceful. The calm before the storm.

They stopped outside the gallery and Francis turned to him, hands twisting, words spilling out of place.

'Alfred-'

'I need to be a hero, Francis. For someone.' He shook out his bomber jacket and slipped into it, hand pressing over his heart, and smiled like the sun. 'I won't die. I can't. Artie still needs me.'

Tears stung his eyes. 'You don't have to do this.'

'I need to.' Alfred turned to face the sun, arms spread wide. 'You get it, Francis, I know you do. I have to do something good. I'll be back tomorrow, okay?'

He did understand. Their fatally soft hearts were the same, chasing after kindness in a harsh world, unable to stop trying to make something better. Alfred laughed and ran down the street, and Francis watched until he'd turned the corner to stagger back inside. His life was now measured in hours instead of years, and he ached to have his last be in Matthew's arms, but his gentle Canadian was hundreds of miles away and Berlin was cold without him.

He rolled over. The pillow was damp with tears and stuck to his cheek, and he pressed further against it, trying to muffle the choking noises clawing out of him. He could die in the East. He could die without ever seeing Matthew again. He could die, and he could watch not just Berlin but the world burn. All for what? Some futile hope to make things better?

Wasn't that always, always what he fought and breathed and died for, in the end? He would gladly die in service to a war waged for freedom. He would gladly devote his life to love, to Matthew. If he died this way, it would be rather poetic. He only hoped nobody else would have to.

Francis dreamed of being dead, and of Matthew, and of the moonlight dancing through the blood spilled like the spring flowers across this gunpowder city.

**0o0o0o**

**_:: Water on concrete just after rain_**


	14. Chapter 14

Standing there on the street corner and waiting to be led to his death, Francis wondered if Matthew would know how he died. Would he know that Francis was dead because he could never stop loving when he should, because he chased impossible causes like the storms they were? Because he was a softhearted fool all tangled up in promises and blood debts and soft purple eyes, and he never knew how to keep his heart from breaking. All he could do was try to fall in love with the right people, and now he was an ocean away.

He did this for Feliciano, with his pained eyes and shaking hands and voice half-trapped. For Ludwig, because he deserved better than this, better than his turncoat brother who'd been dragging them all into his thunderstorm for years. For Antonio, who he missed like oxygen. And all of it for Gilbert, because this was his city, his brother, his plan, _his_. Francis had never stopped being his, no matter how hard he tried.

He could barely think through the pain in his head. At least his dearest Matthew would get his letter. Gentle, kind, deserved better than the coward of a hopeless resistance Matthew, who loved his home and poetry and who had loved Francis when the world was cold. This fight would be for him too.

When the man came to guide them through, it was silent. Alfred's eyes were half-closed, blue shining through fluttering eyelashes until they suddenly snapped open and focused on the sign near Checkpoint Charlie. _You are now leaving the American sector_.

'Francis,' he whispered, voice cracking with youth. 'Checkpoint Charlie. I can't- I won't go that way. Not again.'

Francis' heart was suddenly seized by horror and hate and terror that this boy held the power of the nuclear wars, that this boy marched forward to so much death. But they were both sworn to this now.

'You won't need to go through it,' he breathed, trying to keep his voice low and steady. Alfred jerked his head, eyes wide and blank with memory.

'I won't,' he repeated. His hands tightened into fists and then slackened. 'I'm supposed to be saving people.'

'You are,' Francis said. It wasn't a lie. It couldn't be. If he considered the possibility that they would all die without saving anyone, he would break right now.

They pulled up the coverings over their faces and slipped through one of the guard doors. He'd heard they'd been built to grab those who escaped to the West side, right when they thought they were safe. The men inside nodded at him, and stared at Alfred. Francis didn't respond. He was paralyzed. He was dead already, wasn't he? These men dressed in stolen uniforms, the guide leading them into the half of the city Gilbert had wanted so desperately to save them all from. They were all dead.

He didn't dare look at Alfred. His blood was on his hands as well. It was only fitting, in the end, and Gilbert should have taught him enough about living knee-deep in the blood of others. He would live or die with it.

Francis remembered nothing else until they were at the door of the resistance he'd once sworn himself to. The guide motioned Alfred back.

'I need to speak with Kalmar before he goes,' he explained. 'Give him his name.' Francis didn't want to leave him alone, but the door drew him. Inside was the fight he'd ran from. Inside was Antonio, and Mathias, and _Gilbert_.

He felt his lips peel back from his teeth and his lunge to shove the door open with a rattle that shook him down to his fragile bones. _I wish you fell for someone other than a soon to be dead man, my dearest Matthew_, he thought, a last desperate prayer before he caught the gazes of his best friends.

For a moment, that was all that existed. Springtime green and so much pain and love that Francis forgot to breathe. Copper red and a break that ran deeper than anything could ever fix.

Francis moved forward without being aware of it, standing over their table. Dead men, all of them. Gilbert lifted his head. His bright gaze had always felt like drinking pure adrenaline. All Francis could feel now was that his foolish, lovesick heart was following the beat of a song he'd sung with someone he loved in a better way than this.

'We missed you,' Gilbert said to the silence. His smile widened into fangs, full of anguish. 'Welcome back.'

As the roaring of the bar rose, dull in the back of his head, like the baying of wild wounded things, Francis felt himself sit down in the chair already pulled out. Here they were, thrown back together against every better instinct. God must be laughing at all of them. Francis stared at Gilbert, taking in the new scars and the new break that ran clear through him, and the simple wooden cross around his neck. He opened his mouth to say something, scream and berate, but all that came out was:

'If Ludwig dies here, I hope you know that it is your fault.'

Gilbert didn't move. His eyes were glassy and blank, like birds dead on the ground, cold with death. The knife-sharp carving of a smile was gone.

If Francis died here, with these two broken men as his last sight instead of Matthew, he'd hate himself. But what was new there?

'Kalmar wants us together,' Antonio said. His hand clenches around empty air like it's trying to hold onto something or _someone_ else. If the latter is true, death would be a mercy to him. Francis wasn't worried about the same thing for Gilbert. Invincible did not exist in this city, but Gilbert came as close to it as anything. He didn't love anything but Berlin itself.

'He says we're his best.' Antonio tipped his head, eyes shining with horrified tears that he blinked away. It was true: Gilbert the weapon to burn through the prison and Francis and Antonio to blunt his edges after it was all dead and done, and leave the body to rot.

The door clattered open again and everyone turned as if Alfred's electric energy was building a thunderstorm inside the very bar. Even out of his jacket, he shone with the art and reckless glory of the West, standing there like a rogue angel in the doorway, transfixing everyone. Mathias stood, swaying on his feet, staring at Alfred with a look Francis didn't understand for the split second before he masked it with the roaring energy of Kalmar.

'We have the _West_ with us now,' he shouted. Francis only saw the bar surge for the pilot, all hands and wide awed eyes, and the pure exultant joy on Alfred's face.

Antonio's hand brushed his when he handed him a drink. He poured the same for Gilbert, who threw it back all at once, clutching the wooden cross around his neck. There was pure prayer in the movement.

'I thought you'd given that up,' Francis rasped.

'I did,' Gilbert said. Antonio refilled all of their drinks.

0o0o0o

Matthew thought that when he returned to Canada it would feel like being able to breathe again after the chokehold hell of the military. Instead, it felt like there was an airless space beside him where Francis should have been but wasn't, where Alfred deserved to be if there was any fairness in the world, and all that had happened to the grip around his neck was that now it was tied to wondering and wishing and wanting for two people he loved who were across an entire ocean from him.

Alfred should be here instead of him, waiting for a flight back to England. Smiling and stamping his feet to keep away the cold, the haunted hollow weight in his eyes banished by the warmth of flying _home_, back to Arthur.

Francis should be here next to him, laying in the knee-high heathery grass, with the stars spread out like a thousand frozen raindrops above them both. They'd talk and laugh and watch how the moon silvered all the pine trees into hoarfrost. Matthew's tears were icing on his cheeks. The cold bit into his knuckles and slowed his tongue, but he whispered their song to the tear-studded heavens.

_Blue moon, you saw me standing alone_...

Home had always been _Canada_, with the ponds silver-slick and the whispering of the trees, with the call of the mountains in his bones. Matthew has been satisfied with that before. He would have been happy to live and die among the wilds, breathing in the scent of winter wind and sugar maple. But it wasn't enough anymore. He felt hollow and ghostly here, fading into the background of snow and trees, freezing into the stars.

Berlin had a way of carving people down to nothing but the raw terrified self and then making them over again into something that was wild in a different way. The kind of wild need that sparked in his bones when he touched the place Francis' collarbone met his shoulder. The kind of wild that came with the hunger he had felt when Francis looked at him in awe and love, hair rumpled from bed. A human kind of wild.

Matthew heard his laugh freeze in the cold air, every breath sharp in his throat. He _liked_ it. He'd reached out with both hands for that hungry, wanting, _needing_ part inside of him that the mountains didn't bring out. The war city had changed him, too, and laying here in the place he had carried inside himself for years as a shield, Matthew knew that there was no stepping back from it. Canada was a bastion where he was at peace, full of nothing but north winds and the scent of pines, but the world was not at peace. He knew too much of the soft burning wonder of love to ever let go now.

He stood and started walking back to his house, and the warmth of the fire and the letters lying on the table there.

Matthew shook the snow off and hung his clothes to dry before he picked up the letters he'd received earlier that day. He wasn't used to getting mail, but he found he loved it. He liked being thought of, all the way across an ocean.

Alfred's was a note alongside his letter for Arthur. Matthew carefully set the latter aside. His fingers with clumsy from cold, and prickling from the fire, but he enjoyed it. He wanted the sensation of waking back up, loving and hurting with it, existing in that incredible way he had with Francis.

_Hey Mattie,_

_I've been talking more with Francis. He likes looking at the stars too. I'm really glad to talk to him. He understands all of it._

_I wish you were here instead of me. I bet you feel the same, huh? _

_One day this whole damn thing will be done, and then we'll be okay. Me and Arthur and you and Francis, and everyone else like us. I promise. _

_Alfie_

He smiled at it. Alfred always promised the impossible things, but this felt like something real. In the future, they'd all be better. He hummed the second verse of the song, carefully picking up the letter from Francis and simply holding it for a long moment, unable to keep from smiling. _Francis_. Having just this part of him in his hands made Matthew feel whole here, perfect.

He brought the paper to his lips and kissed it, lingering over the soft impressions of a pen in the paper before he opened it. The words cut through the warmth with horror.

_My dearest Matthew,_

_My old resistance contacted me again. They are planning a raid and they needed me. I cannot say more here in case this is captured. _

_If I am captured instead, this letter will be the last you hear of me for a very, very long time. _


End file.
